


Serpent Society

by fallendarlings



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blood and Gore, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Found Family, Getting Together, Graphic Torture, M/M, Mystery, Oblivious Steve Rogers, POV Alternating, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Sam Wilson, POV Sharon Carter (Marvel), POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Russian Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, on natasha and sharon's part not stevebucky, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 66,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28538379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallendarlings/pseuds/fallendarlings
Summary: No one who truly knows Steve Rogers will ever say that he's good at following orders. With DC in a state of emergency following the battle over the Potomac, America needs its Captain. But the only thing on Steve's mind is reuniting with his best friend. And Steve is willing to do anything to avenge the horrors that Hydra put Bucky through.Barnes is just trying to figure out how to be a person again. He wants to stay under the radar and stay out of Hydra's clutches. He doesn't mean to stumble upon information that he can't leave alone. Hereallydoesn't mean to get caught up in unraveling it with an unexpected ally.High stakes have never scared Natasha. But accidentally implying her cover has a girlfriend and then getting wrapped up in keeping the story going with Sharon Carter by her side was not what she'd intended to do. And the longer they keep it up, the less it feels like an act. For both of them.Being on Captain America's team started as the highlight of Sam's career. But the longer they hunt Hydra, the more he has to grapple with what he's seeing and the change that it's starting in him. As Steve is losing sight of what being Cap means, Sam is learning how to step into the role.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 58
Kudos: 79





	1. Vengeance Is Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apricotcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricotcake/gifts).



> OR: my take on Captain America: Serpent Society, our beloved third cap movie who has not yet returned from war. i'll avenge her. in my world, this would be rated R, so don't go into this expecting a lighthearted plot. this is my foray into mystery, political thriller, horror, etc. i didn't tag dark steve because i feel like what that tag indicates is not in line with his characterization here, but be warned he does have anger issues and a violent streak in this fic. it is GRAPHIC. 
> 
> keep an eye on the tags because i haven't listed all of them yet due to spoilers. this fic will have steve, bucky, sam, sharon, and natasha pov scenes. it is not strictly a steve/bucky fic. not only do you get natsharon fake dating, but you get a sam becoming captain america arc. as always, your comments and suggestions are always loved and appreciated. i have a lot of this fic left to write so im more than willing to add in your ideas if i think they'll fit well into the plot. i hope to update this regularly but life tends to get in the way so im not committing to a set schedule at this point. 
> 
> happy reading!

Steve Rogers had never slept in a cradle. All he had ever known was the cold comfort of the grave; calling to him even as he lived, as loud when he was healthy as it ever was when he was sick. He tasted blood on the tip of his tongue and loved the taste, loved the adrenaline rush when a bullet missed his head by an inch, when he had a knife to his throat and a bomb ticking down to a death sentence. Violence is the only lover in his bed, the touch of nightmares all over his skin every morning when his eyes open. 

Following the fall of SHIELD, and subsequently Hydra, Bucky disappeared. To anyone else, he would have been in the wind, impossible to track. But Steve knows Bucky. And, against all odds, Bucky Barnes _knows_ Steve. He knows there’s nothing Steve loves more than a puzzle to solve, a mystery to pour his time into. He knows that there’s no threat of danger that could keep Steve away. When the hospital finally releases him, Steve goes back to his apartment, only walking a little stiffly. The bruises on his face are already mostly healed. He doesn’t intend to stay there, well aware that he may never be able to find all the bugs SHIELD had filled the place with. But there are some things that he doesn’t want to leave behind.

Not only does Sam help him pack up, he offers Steve his spare room. Because Sam is a good guy, a good friend. The best of the best, really. Steve’s not quite sure how he got so lucky. Most of the stuff in his apartment had come with the place when SHIELD set him up in it, so he’d left it all behind. All he really has is two cardboard boxes and his duffle bag with his clothes. They haven’t finished dredging the Potomac for bodies, so he doesn’t have his shield back yet. He sits on the end of the bed, where Sam had told him to stay and rest- he does still have healing gunshot wounds- and he opens the flaps of one of the boxes. 

The thing he cared about bringing with him the most is sitting right on top. A thick spiral bound book that Steve has spent the past two years alternatively using as a journal and a sketchbook. When they’d first woken him from the ice, he’d been required to see a psychologist for six months and the journal had been her idea. The trouble is, when Steve gets his hands on pencil and paper, more often than not he ends up doodling in the margins and across the page so his journaling entries are broken up by drawings. Muscle memory guiding his hands in etching Bucky’s likeness on every page. He always was Steve’s favorite subject.

He flips through the pages slowly, tracing his fingertips over the laughing eyes taking up the top of a page. He’d stared at them so many times, full of the numb acceptance that he would never look into them again. And yet, somehow, he has. Every time he’s slept since the helicarrier, he’s relived that moment. Bucky looming over him, those grey eyes shifting from blankness to cold horror as the memory had clicked into place. Yeah, Bucky remembers him. 

So where the fuck is he. 

Steve frowns, grabs a pencil and flips to a clean page. All he knows is that Bucky survived. He doesn’t know where he was kept all these years, doesn’t know anywhere that he might retreat to go to ground and wait for the storm to pass. All Steve knows is a whole lot of nothing at this point. He can guess blindly, but that doesn’t mean anything. There’s surely some information in all of the files that Natasha had dumped onto the internet but it’s all encrypted. He can try calling Tony Stark in the morning, see if he’ll be willing to put Jarvis on the task of looking for any mention of The Winter Soldier. Christ, but if his suspicions from what Zola had said are true then it might not be the brightest idea to get Tony in on the cause when there’s the very high chance that Bucky killed Howard and his wife. He rubs his hand over his face.

“Hey.”

Steve’s on his feet, knife in hand before he fully registers who has just snuck in through the window. “Jesus fucking _christ_ , Nat.” He slips the weapon back into its sheath and presses his hand against the throbbing wound in his stomach. “A little warning next time?”

“Sorry,” she says, not particularly regretful, as she steps fully into the light. In spite of the scare she’d just given him, he’s glad to see her. She’d been the one to step up and handle the courts calling for their heads over the past few days, smoothing things over. As much as she can, at least. There’s only so much one person can do to calm the waters after what is being regarded as the worst terrorist attack on US soil in years. DC is in a state of emergency; FBI, CIA, Homeland Security… they’re all scrambling, trying to pick up the pieces and root out their own Hydra moles. Everyone pointing fingers at everyone else. And meanwhile, anyone that is _truly_ active Hydra has probably gone to ground, disappeared into the shadows. Retreat and regroup. Those are the problems that will fall to people like them. To Steve, Nat, Maria Hill, Fury. The alphabet agencies get to handle the dirty politicians but _they_ get to handle the worst of them. People like Rumlow. And he can see the stress of it all on her face, shadows under her eyes. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

He eases back down onto the bed, dropping his forehead into his hands. “Well. I’m still healing from three gunshot wounds. I’m unemployed and crashing in a friend’s spare room. My best friend who I thought was dead turns out to be brainwashed and tortured and forgot everything about who he is. I almost got killed by said best friend, but he remembered enough in time to pull the final punch and to save me from drowning. So, success? Except that he’s disappeared and I have no idea where to even start looking. All things considered, I’m doing okay.” He ought to be freaking out, ought to be consumed by guilt over what had happened to Bucky. Right now, he can’t feel any of it. Just numbness. Even the elation of him being alive is far away at the moment. Just a faint sense of urgency, a need to find him.

He’s always considered it something of a miracle, a saving grace, that when shit hits the fan he can compartmentalize everything. Lock it away and tell it, _later, I’ll feel you later_. He does what needs to be done and he doesn’t crack. Not until he’s finished his mission. Historically, it’s probably not the best coping mechanism, considering it had made him crash a plane into the arctic once. But no one is perfect.

“Yeah.” She sits down next to him, tilting her head against his shoulder and sighing. “That’s what I figured. It’s been a hell of a week.”

“You got that right.” In the silence that falls, he can hear Sam faintly talking on the phone in the other room, ordering pizza. His stomach growls. It has been a _hell_ of a week. Tucking into a couple of boxes of the greasiest, cheesiest pizza sounds like fucking heaven. He rests the side of his face against Nat’s head, breathing in the apple of her shampoo.

She puts her hand over the top of his and squeezes lightly. “I know someone.” The words come out soft, hesitant. “That might know something. I could probably get a file cobbled together. It won’t be much. But it might help you figure out a place to start.”

That’s all he needs. Just a starting point. If Bucky remembers him at all, and Steve really believes that he does, he’ll leave a trace. He’ll know that Steve will not give up on looking for him and so he’ll leave a clue, a piece to the jigsaw, a puzzle for Steve to put together and follow to the next and the next. A scavenger hunt that will either lead him to a message to leave it the fuck alone or it will lead him to Bucky. He has to hold onto this belief, because at the moment it’s all he’s got. That moment of recognition is the only thing keeping him together. Of course Bucky had to leave. DC is crawling with Hydra and Steve is high profile, injured, and unable to protect him at the moment. He had to leave to avoid them. But he’ll leave a clue. Bucky always liked to make a game of things. 

And Steve always loved to play them. Too single minded, too smart for his own good. Always getting into trouble that he didn’t belong in. “Can you please?”

She squeezes his hand again and stands. “Fury wants to see you and Wilson after his funeral. Tomorrow, 2PM. I’ll meet you there with what you want. Don’t be late.”

***

Steve dedicates two walls of Sam’s spare room to the investigation. He gets his hands on a secure laptop and starts decrypting the data dumps, cross referencing names and dates from the file Nat had gotten him with the information in the leak. He has a section of wall that’s just his growing hit list. Everyone alive that had ever laid a hand on Bucky in violence. He memorizes their faces and thinks about putting knives in their eyes as he falls asleep at night. Everyone thinks Steve is the golden boy, the moral compass. Full of morality and righteousness. But the truth is, he’s nothing like that at all. From childhood, when given the opportunity, Steve always chose violence. He’d been born angry and he would die angry. He won’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it, but when they do… he doesn’t hold back. And no one deserves to die in agony more than the people who contributed to Bucky’s seventy year torture.

“You don’t have to do this,” Steve had told Sam again when he’d first started going through the file and Sam had sat down with him, ready to help in any way he could. He hadn’t wanted him to feel obligated to give up a good chunk of his time for this. Didn’t want to pressure him into a situation that will no doubt be life threatening. Whether from Bucky’s Winter Soldier impulses or from Hydra on their tails. Safety isn’t a concern for Steve, but Sam has a good life. A good job and a nice house and he’s settled. Steve doesn’t want to ruin that. 

But Sam had just given him a hard look and had said, “You can’t just go into this completely alone, Steve. Even Captain America needs someone to watch his six. So. Where do we start?” 

They’d worked together, deciphering the file. Steve, who grew up as much in the Barnes household as his own, with Russian as familiar to his ears as his mother’s Irish lilt has no trouble translating the Cyrillic. But as it had turned out, Sam had taken Russian in college and is a fair hand at the language too.

So now he has an account of Bucky’s unmaking. Step by brutal step, exactly what they did to him to make him forget himself and become a killing machine. Steve hadn’t cried, reading it. Not like Sam had. His tears will do Bucky no good now. There will be time later to feel the guilt settle over him like a second skin. For now, he has a mission. There’s no room for anything else. 

They’d gleaned the location of several Hydra bases in Europe and Asia from the file but it hadn’t had anything more recent than the early 2000s, ending with detailing the transfer of the Winter Soldier to the American Hydra branch. So, it’s a start, but it still doesn’t tell Steve where to look immediately. Which leaves him the encrypted data. And.

Alexander Pierce. 

He knows that the man had died in the Triskelion. Fury had seen to that and Natasha had confirmed. But he has a house in DC. Since all hell has broken loose, it’s likely no one has had time to see to his property. Officially, he isn’t even dead yet. Chances are likely his house will have _something_ , however small it might be. It’s a place to start while he waits for the decryption program. He figures Bucky would have had maybe a day to run before the drug withdrawal set in- the file had detailed his mission protocol, starting with drug injections. Adrenaline to keep him going when he would otherwise be able to, antipsychotics, libido suppressants. The list went on. It’s horrifying and terrible, but in a way it gives Steve hope. Why would they drug him so heavily in order to keep him compliant if they’d already erased every part of him that would know to fight them? Unless Bucky Barnes kept coming back, no matter how hard they tried to kill him.

So at this point, Bucky is probably past the worst phase of withdrawal but still compromised. He’s probably moving slowly or not at all. Sam had hesitantly brought up the idea that he might have willingly gone to an extraction point and gone back to Hydra- it’s all he knows- but Steve refuses to believe that. He wouldn’t have gone back when he’d purposely failed his mission. He might have gone to a safehouse to wait it out, though. 

Steve doesn’t even need to go through the SHIELD database to find Pierce’s house. Two months ago, he’d been invited to a dinner party at it. He’d ended up being pulled into a mission and hadn’t made it, but he still knows the address. The sun is just now getting low on the horizon, so he has time to get over there, sweep the house, and get back before Sam gets home from running errands.

Mind made up, he goes to the closet and methodically gears up. The stealth suit was probably still in the locker room he’d stashed it in when he’d gone on the run with Nat and the CIA has recovered his shield from the river but he just hasn’t had the chance to go and get them. His backup gear is just basic black tac gear, the same that every member of the Strike team had. He pulls on the compression underlayers and methodically gears up. Guns are not his weapon of choice, never have been, but he puts on a set of shoulder holsters. If he can’t have his shield, then he’ll take a knife any day. One on each ankle, sheaths on each thigh and on each forearm. He viciously rips the SHIELD logo off the jacket sleeve before he pulls it on. He leaves a note on the kitchen counter and takes his bike, breaking speed limits without care. 

Alexander Pierce’s modernistic, glass mansion is dark. Steve parks down the street and sneaks in through the back yard. The lock is easy enough to break and he slips inside with no issue. He waits for his vision to adjust to the dim light of the dying sun through the windows and surveys the room. It’s nearly spotless, would be perfect. If not for the bloodstains on the floor. Whatever body that had lain there has been removed but the stain remains. He silently walks through the house, ensuring that he’s the only one here. It looks for all the world completely undisturbed since Pierce had left for work that last morning. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. When he’s satisfied himself that there isn’t a trace of human life in the building, he starts to tear the rooms apart. He doesn’t leave a single stone- or piece of furniture- unturned. He crushes surveillance bugs, looks at every paper he finds. He’d brought a backpack with him and anything that looks like it might be somewhat useful gets put into it. Files with the SHIELD logo on the front, the laptop in the office. 

He’s in the library when he finds it. Like every cliche ever, the bunker door is hidden behind a fake bookcase. He spits out, “ _fuck_ ,” as soon as he sees it because at first, all he sees is the biometric lock. Maybe someone like Natasha or Tony could bypass it but Steve just doesn’t have those capabilities. He’s had a rough crash course in decryption technology over the past week, but even his newfound computer skills can’t get him past this. But. On first glance, it looks like the concrete door is shut tightly. 

But.

It isn’t.

He sucks in a breath and steps closer. There’s barely a centimeter keeping it from being fully shut, keeping it from sealing. But that’s enough. He digs his fingertips into that precious space and hauls back, until it opens fully, an overhead light coming on and revealing a set of stairs going down. One hand on the hilt of a knife, he cautiously descends into the bunker. It’s just as lifeless as the rest of the house though. The only difference is, it looks like it’s already been ransacked. 

Not just ransacked. Frankly, it looks like someone tore this room apart. Angrily. There’s file boxes ripped apart, papers scattered everywhere. The table is smashed. One wall has a massive safe, the dented door hanging precariously on one hinge. It would take a fucking lot to bend steel like that. Steve steps over to it and presses his fingers into the handprint, the place where someone had gripped the door and ripped it open. He’s not even sure he would be able to do that. 

But a metal arm. That just might. 

“Bucky,” he murmurs, looking into the safe. There’s a weapons section that’s been stripped of ammo, knives, and most of the handguns. The big automatic rifles have been mostly left alone- more conspicuous to carry. Another section has a stack of fake passports with Pierce’s face in them but the cash drawer has been emptied of any currencies it might have once held. There’s a laptop that Steve adds to his own bag, along with a bunch of flash drives. The fact that they’ve been left behind tells him that Bucky was here to get supplies, not information. 

It takes him a good twenty minutes to strip the room of anything that might be of value, to gather up all the files scattered on the floor. He has to get another bag to fit everything. It’s only as he’s heading back upstairs that he catches what he missed on the way down. A piece of paper, driven into the wall above the concrete door with a knife. He reaches up and grabs it, tilting it into the light to read the words shakily scrawled onto the page. The handwriting isn’t recognizable, but that’s no surprise. Bucky was left handed. There are a set of coordinates, a list of door codes, and three words at the bottom. 

**Destroy the chair.**

***

“I still can’t believe you’d just take off on your own like that,” Sam gripes as they approach the bank under the cover of darkness. “I leave the house for five minutes, man, and you go off to ransack the _leader of Hydra’s house._ You didn’t even put an address in your note. ‘Going to Alexander Pierce’s house to look for info. Be back soon.’ What the hell, Steve?”

“I’m known for taking off on my own, actually.” Steve adjusts his cowl, glancing at Sam. On his way back from Pierce’s last night he’d stopped and picked up his suit from where he’d stashed it, but he isn’t walking into this bank as Captain America. He’s walking in as Steve Rogers. And Steve Rogers is Vengeance. So the once blue helmet has been repainted black and instead of his shield, he has brass knuckles on his fingers and a selection of knives to pick from. And every Nazi bastard in this building is going to die choking on their own blood. He puts one hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Last chance. This is gonna be ugly. You don’t have to do this with me.”

“I kind of gathered that by your weapons choices, Steve.” Sam raises his brows and gestures to his own gun. “This? Business. Those?” He taps the brass knuckles, waves a hand at the relative armory of knives Steve is decked out in. “Personal.” They’d spent the afternoon at Fury’s secret base, gearing up. Before he’d left for Europe, he’d given them the codes to get in and told them to use what they needed. “This is an active Hydra cell. You need backup. I’m with you. Stop trying to scare me off.”

Steve squeezes Sam’s shoulder lightly and steps back. “Then I want you to focus on getting intel. Leave the people to me.” He flexes his hand. Bucky’s directions had been to destroy the chair- and from the Winter Soldier file, Steve knows _exactly_ what kind of chair he meant. Tonight, Steve is Bucky’s weapon. A gun he’d pointed and shot at a target. But Steve is no regular bullet and when he hits, he will be felt everywhere. 

“Jesus Christ.” Sam mumbles. 

“It’s just Steve, actually.” He smirks and wrenches the locked front door of the bank open with one hand. The lobby is empty spare for a single security guard, who startles at their sudden entrance. He doesn’t have time to even shout before Steve’s fist hits his throat. The brass knuckles tear through the thin skin and the man falls like a sack of bricks, wheezing and gurgling. Steve kicks him viciously in the ribs, steel toed boots shattering them and forcing the guard over onto his stomach. All it takes is one stomp, his heel coming down hard on the back of his neck to snap the bone. While Steve would have _loved_ to leave him here to die slowly, he doesn’t need to take the risk that he might be able to set off an alarm. He’ll take his time with it later. 

They walk silently to the elevator and while Sam’s eyes are a little wide, he doesn’t look unnerved yet. Steve punches in the code he’d memorized from Bucky’s note and they descend into the base. As the elevator comes to a stop, Sam lifts his gun and Steve draws a knife. When Steve glances over at him, Sam nods firmly and says, “Don’t hold back on my account, Rogers. I’m not gonna need a fainting couch. Do what you gotta do.”

As soon as the doors slide open, Steve is moving. It looks like they’re in the midst of frantically packing up to move bases, techs and agents running around the hall. They don’t even seem to notice Steve and Sam at first, the black tac gear that they’re wearing all too similar to what the Hydra agents themselves are wearing. When Steve grabs the man closest to him and slams his head into the brick wall so forcefully that brain matter splatters, they pay attention. In all the shouting and chaos and sudden gunfire, Steve’s mind is quiet. 

He puts a knife in someone’s forehead, uses their body as a shield against the bullets being fired at him. Meticulously working down the long hallway, leaving a trail of dying bodies in his wake. Every hurt they’d put Bucky through, Steve returns to them tenfold. “I bet you watched them unmake him,” he says casually, and rips off an agent’s left arm with his bare hands. He gouges out eyes and slices off fingers and puts them down the throats of those he’d taken them from. There’s blood everywhere, pooling on the floor, splattered all over him. He grabs a white coated tech by the back of his neck as the man runs past. “I bet you heard him scream and didn’t even try to help.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“ _James Buchanan Barnes_.” Steve palms a long, wicked thin, serrated knife. Twirls it between his fingers. “I bet you heard his pain in that _fucking_ chair. I bet you didn’t care.” 

The man goes white as a sheet.

Steve stabs the knife into his ear canal with so much force the tip of the blade comes out on the other side of his head. “Hear that.” He throws the man face first into the floor and takes a breath. The hall has gone… not quiet. But the shouts now have changed from panic to pain. The cries of battle turning into the cries of the dying. If they still have cyanide teeth in 2014, most of them will probably choose to bite into them, to end it quickly. If they don’t… he hopes it takes them a good long time to die. He hopes it hurts. When Fury had said _you guys did some nasty stuff_ , he’d had no idea. Steve swipes his arm across his face, wipes away as much of the blood as he can. Which isn’t much, considering that his suit is coated in it too. 

Sam is picking his way towards him, stepping around bodies and puddles of blood and gore. There’s a smear of blood high on his cheekbone. “I took out their gun hands. Left the rest to you. There’s a knife in your thigh.” 

“Oh.” Steve looks down and yeah, Sam is right. There’s a knife sticking out of his thigh, just above his knee. He hadn’t even felt it. All things considered, it’s a small injury and it’ll probably heal completely by morning. He pulls it out with a wince, grimaces at the sensation of warm blood trickling down the inside of his pants. “Thanks.”

“You think that’s all of them?”

“Maybe.” They’d made a lot of racket. If anyone else was going to come running, they would have been here by now. So if there is anyone else, then they’re deeper in the building, trying to get out with whatever intel they can before Steve and Sam catch up to them. “C’mon.” They pick their way through the rooms on either side of the hall, dumping more files into bags to be taken and gone through later. 

“Man, what is it with Hydra and paper files?” Sam hoists the backpack over one shoulder. “This would be so much easier to carry if it was a little flash drive.”

“No one can hack into paper files.” Steve shrugs. They come across a security room, devoid of people but the monitors are still running. This is stored digitally. It takes Steve a few minutes to locate past files. The day before the helicarrier. 

“Are you sure about watching-”

The force of Steve’s glare cuts Sam off mid sentence. It’s not that he _wants_ to watch Bucky being tortured, but…. If he catches up to Bucky and congress decides to put him on trial, tapes like this are evidence that they _need_ to have on hand. The video feed starts out with Bucky sitting shirtless in the chair, staring blankly while some tech works on his left arm. After a few minutes his expression goes confused and then angry and he moves so fast the tech doesn’t even see it coming when Bucky sends him flying across the room. Instantly, every gun in the room is pointed at him. 

And then Pierce comes in, demanding a mission report, backhanding Bucky across the face. Even the bad audio feed doesn’t stop Steve from understanding when Bucky says, “The man on the bridge… who was he? …I knew him.” 

His breath freezes in his chest, more painful than taking that knife to the thigh. At the same time that he’d been telling Sam and Natasha _he looked right at me like he didn’t even know me_ , Bucky had been here, quietly protesting, “But I _knew_ him,” when he’d been told what his mission was. 

Steve doesn’t even register the tears that fall unbidden down his face. Sorrow, sharp and bitter, that turns right back into rage as the tape progresses. As he watches them clamp Bucky into that chair and watches them electrocute his fucking brain, uncaring of his tortured screams around the bite guard in his mouth. Steve stands up so suddenly that the chair he’d been sitting in clatters to the floor.

“Steve.”

“Do you know how to make copies of these tapes? We’ll need them for evidence.” He wipes his face dry, taking a deep breath.

“Yeah, I can do that. But-”

“Great, thanks. I’m gonna go rip that chair to shreds.” He makes his way to the stairs that go down to the vault and takes them three at a time. It looks even more sinister as he gets up close, with it’s clamps and its headpiece. And the tech that’s in the room is so consumed with frantically copying data from the computer that he doesn’t notice Steve silently slipping up behind him. “You fucking evil bastard,” Steve hisses in his ear, clamping his arm in a chokehold around his neck. 

He recognizes this guy. The very same one he just watched press the button to turn the chair on in that video. “I didn’t make it easy to die for your friends upstairs, but I promise I have something extra special just for you.” If he hadn’t just finished watching the graphic torture of his best friend, then Steve might have snapped his neck and been done with it so he could focus on the chair itself. But his blood is hot under his skin, hands shaking with the force of his rage. This guy might not have given the order to wipe Bucky, but Alexander Pierce is dead and he’s the one who pressed the button.

“Please,” the tech wheezes out, hands scrambling at Steve’s forearm.

Steve spins him around, trades the chokehold for wrapping his hand around the guy’s neck instead so he can walk him backwards and shove him into the chair. No computer tech is a match for his strength, so even though the guy struggles and tries to stand, Steve has his arms in the clamps in seconds. “I just got done watching your security tapes,” he says as he moves to the control computer. “So you can thank yourself for putting him through this. Because now I know how to turn it on.”

The tech’s eyes are wild and he’s thrashing, pulling at restraints he has no hope of breaking out of. They were built for Bucky, after all. “Wait. Wait, don’t. Please, I-” his fear is so palpable, from the vomit that comes dribbling out of his mouth to the smell of literal _shit_ that fills the air as the guy soils his pants. He coughs. “I have in- information.”

Steve raises his brows, holding his hand over the button. “I’m listening.”

“The. The. The Asset had a protocol! In the event of mission failure. If his handlers couldn’t extract him, he was to go to a safehouse and wait.” He rattles off a set of coordinates. “He would be there. Waiting.”

“You missed one fact.” Steve smiles, cold and unsympathetic. “His programming is done. The Asset? Done. And Bucky Barnes doesn’t wait for anyone.” He punches the button with his thumb, crosses his arms as the headpiece descends on the shouting, thrashing agent.

The voltage they’d programmed the machine to deliver to Bucky is far higher than any non enhanced human can withstand, but it’s a slow, horrible death. The tech shrieks and convulses; without a mouthguard, he bites clean through his tongue and blood mixes with the vomit coating his front. And Steve doesn’t _care_. It would have been a fucking mercy if Bucky had died in the chair the first time they’d put him in it. Instead, he’d been forced to endure it over and over. And over. And over. Seventy fucking years. 

It’s a timed process and Sam arrives just as the machine cuts off and the headgear lifts. What had once been the tech is now a disfigured corpse. His head is swollen and discolored, blood leaking from his ears and out of the corners of his mouth, frozen in a scream. “Fucking hell, Steve.”

“He got what was coming to him.” Steve doesn’t even glance over as he throws the body across the room and sets in on the chair. He rips the apparatus apart with extreme prejudice. He doesn’t stop until it’s nothing but a pile of twisted metal and wire and scattered bolts and screws, far beyond repair even by the best engineer in the world. 

“Are we going to blow the building?”

Steve glances around, takes in the destruction and smiles. “No. When they don’t show up where they were supposed to, someone will come looking for them. Let it be a message.” His gaze falls on the floor. Here, in the vault, there hasn’t been a bloodbath, not like in the hallway. Just the tech with his fried head and the remains of the chair. He just has one last thing to say. 

He kneels by the body and cuts a clean slice into the man’s wrist. There on the concrete floor, with blood as his ink, Steve leaves his message. 

**Vengeance is mine. I will repay.**

The Bible verse really goes something like _never avenge yourselves, leave it to the wrath of God_ yada yada _it is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord._ Well, frankly, Steve doesn’t believe in God and it turns out that he and Bucky are about the only immortal things that this earth has produced. And if God _was_ real, he’d like to see him match Steve’s wrath in this moment. No, vengeance belongs to him. It belongs to Bucky. And every single head of Hydra is going to be crying in fear by the time they’re done. 

“Let’s go.” Steve straightens up, arms folded across his chest. “There are a thousand more bases waiting. I’m just getting started.” 


	2. The Boy With The Broken Halo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good evening serpent society nation i have another chapter for you. this one is a little less intense than chapter one, a bit more character development for you. i really enjoyed reading your impressions of chapter one so i hope you like this one as well :)

Barnes finds himself in Cleveland, Ohio. 

In the basement safe of his handler, there had been a file on one Vasily Karpov. He had not gone to the house looking for information and he was more interested in laying low at the moment than seeking out Hydra on purpose. He’d gone to get weapons, to get cash, to get the stacks of false identification that Pierce had stored there for the Soldier. Barnes does not remember much, but he is certain that upon his transfer to American Hydra, he’d become less of a political weapon and more of a personal attack dog. Pierce had been so high up in the food chain, so arrogant of his untouchability, he’d kept everything in his own house. The Asset had been given a protocol, known only to himself and to Pierce. If things were to go south, he was to retrieve the papers and money and weapons from the bunker and he was to extract Pierce and get him out of the country. 

Pierce had been somewhere in that building as it had gone down.

And Barnes has no interest in saving him from the fate he’d brought on himself anyway, hang the Asset’s protocol. 

He couldn’t risk going back to the vault, but he was somehow intimately aware that however impossible he might make himself to track, Steve Rogers would manage to always be right on his heels. So instead of trying to outrun him, Barnes is embracing it. He’d left that note, pointing Rogers in the opposite direction, knowing he would take the instruction and deal with what Barnes cannot. So Rogers had gone to the bank and, finally back on his feet after the days of sweating, shaking, vomiting, seizing, Barnes had gone to Cleveland.

He picks a spot to lay in wait, to survey the house from. When Karpov leaves to… do whatever people do when they leave their houses… Barnes slips in the back door. The fact that Karpov isn’t running makes no sense, tactically. Barnes has gathered enough from the news reports on the laptop he’d stolen to know that the Black Widow had dumped all of Hydra’s electronic files onto the internet. Surely Karpov knows too. It’s all heavily encrypted, more than any normal civilian could ever dream of decoding, but it’s still a threat. 

Maybe his only record of location is that file that Barnes had taken from Pierce’s bunker. 

He hadn’t even remembered Karpov until he’d read the name, seen the picture. Even now, he only has vague flashes. Cold, a base in a cavern. Somewhere in Russia? They were speaking Russian. He can remember being told he had a mission, but not what the actual mission consisted of. He can remember the words.

The _fucking_ words.

In a way, they’d hurt worse than the chair. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he _knows_ that eventually there became a point that when the physical pain was just too much, the Asset, the soldat, _Barnes_ simply… went away. Somewhere so deep that he didn’t feel anything bad anymore. The Away Place was bright and warm like sunshine and it felt like a soft hand in his hair and quiet singing. It felt like a weird whooshing sound and movement under his ear and a child’s voice coming out of his mouth, _ain’t it strange, Mama? Having an entire baby in your belly?_ The Away Place was _wonderful_ , but Barnes didn’t let himself go there often. In the beginning, he knows there were a lot of Away Places. A lot of memories. They’d taken them away from him one by one until all he had left was his hazy sunshine Away Place. He held it close and tight and desperate and he didn’t go there often because then they might take it from him too. 

The words were a different kind of pain. 

They reached deep into his head like needles, like fishhooks, grabbing onto everything. He didn’t have the memories to match the words, but he had the feelings. Each and every one had meant something to him once upon a time. It was worse than them taking his Away Places. Because with the words, they hadn’t just taken them, they’d changed them. Twisted them into something that takes away _him_. And no matter how far away he tried to go when they were being said, they followed him. He couldn’t choose not to feel them.

Karpov had been a big enthusiast with the words. 

When it became apparent that Barnes was a resilient fucking asshole that didn’t even need Steve Rogers to break programming, the wiping and the words had come more frequently. 

Well. There’s no wipe chair here in Cleveland and Karpov might still know the words but Barnes has no intention of giving him any chance to speak. He takes care not to disturb a single thing- there will be time to search the house after Karpov is dealt with. The bathroom lights are off and the shower curtain is drawn shut. Bad form, giving an intruder such an easy place to hide. Barnes steps into the tub, grips a knife in his skin hand and waits. 

It’s a good hour before Karpov comes back, with the rattle of plastic bags and the sound of the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets opening and closing. Still, Barnes waits. He waits until the bathroom lights come on and Karpov comes in, muttering under his breath about _needing to take a fucking piss_.

He waits until the zipper is undone and the pants are down and Karpov is midway through relieving himself to reach out with the knife and slice the man’s cock clean off. Karpov’s shout is muffled in Barnes’ metal palm as the lump of flesh falls into the toilet, splashing piss water over the sides. He keeps his hand over his mouth so tightly that no sound can come out and the bones in Karpov’s jaw start to give under the force of his fingers as he steps to the side, hauling his former handler with him. 

Karpov’s eyes lock with Barnes’ in the bathroom mirror and the man has never been stupid. Except for the not running and the shower curtain thing. Okay, maybe Karpov is getting a little stupid and comfortable in his old age. But he’s intelligent enough to know his time is up, that there’s nothing he can do. Barnes has the upper hand and he will not have the opportunity to use the words that could save his life. He stops scrambling at Barnes’ metal arm, holds his hands up. There’s still blood gushing from the place where his cock used to be and it probably hurts a lot.

So does having your arm sawed off while you’re awake.

“Good choice.” Barnes grabs his wrists in his flesh hand, wrestles them into cuffs without taking his other hand off Karpov’s mouth. It won’t do to have him try to grab a weapon off of Barnes’ body. He speaks in English, because he’d never been allowed to under Karpov’s rule. And the fact that the language he’d learned while still hanging on his mother’s skirts had been _taken_ and twisted until it was something that meant only pain… that makes Barnes angry. But he’ll speak English now, and then later. Later he’ll take back Russian; he’ll figure out how to make it soft again. He kicks Karpov in the leg when he looks down. “Hey. Look at me.” Karpov meets his gaze in the mirror again, strained green eyes staring into Barnes’ own. “Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me. What was it you always kept complaining about? ‘No matter how many times we wipe him, the bastard keeps coming back’? Well, guess what?” Barnes smirks and leans in, rests his chin on Karpov’s shoulder, singsong whispers into his ear. “ _I’m back_.” 

***

Maria Hill is in Sam’s kitchen when they get back from running. Steve really would love to focus all of his attention on the mission but at this point, it’s all a lot of sorting through files and cross referencing from the data dump and then sorting through more files. It’s tedious, headache inducing work and Steve hasn’t even begun to work through his anger so sitting still for hours on end is a challenge, to say the least. So for an hour every morning, he goes running with Sam. He pushes himself hard and fast, to the edge of his endurance. He burns off energy that replenishes far too quickly so that he can focus on the paperwork enough to build a mission plan. Bucky had directed him to the bank, likely aware that Steve would strip the place of intel. Intel that contained Hydra bases and officials across the eastern seaboard. This was the direction Bucky wanted him to go, so he would. And when Bucky needed him next, Steve had faith that he would send a message.

“How did you get into my house?” Sam pants, giving Maria a bewildered look. “Nevermind. Don’t answer that. Answer this instead. _Why_ are you in my house?”

“I’m here on behalf of Stark Industries. And Fury.” Maria leans back in her chair, one heel propped up on the corner of it, arms folded over her chest. She looks at Steve, face impassive. “I take it by the paper map on the wall and the Hydra files all over the living room that you’ve decided to take this mission on by yourself.”

Steve grits his teeth. “All these law enforcement agencies are running around trying to clean up the mess in DC and find the Hydra hiding amongst themselves, meanwhile Hydra _is on the move_. Fury went to Europe to deal with the problem over there but who’s handling US soil right now outside of DC?” He folds his own arms, matches her posture. “And what they did to Bucky… it’s fucking personal.”

“He _means_ that shit.” Sam says, over the glass of water he’d started gulping down. 

They’d had a Talk the morning after the bank. It went like: killing people that need killing is all well and good and this is not meant to discourage or judge you for it, but you seem to have a lot of unresolved anger issues, Steve. Uh, yeah he fucking does. Hydra hurt Bucky and that makes Steve angry. He’s resolving it, one body at a time. Murder is not therapy, Steve. As your friend, you should probably think about talking to someone. Here’s a list of phone numbers. When the mission is done, maybe you should call one of them.

Steve had made it clear he doesn’t show mercy to Nazis or to people who hurt his best friend. And Sam had nodded and let it go, told Steve he’s still with him. And they’d dropped the topic and turned their attention to the stacks of paper. 

“This isn’t a reprimand, Captain Rogers.” Hill drops her foot to the floor and sits up straight, palms flat on the table. “This is mission support. What you’ve taken on is _far_ more than a two man job. You need resources. Money, intel support, weapons, transportation.” She looks over at Sam sharply. “I understand you’re out of a car at the moment.”

“Don’t bring up the car-” Steve starts just as Sam sucks in a breath so hard it whistles between his teeth. 

“Yeah, I’m out of a car.” He slams the water glass down on the counter. “Because an _assassin punched through my windshield and ripped out the steering wheel_. On the highway.” At Steve’s protesting noise, he rolls his eyes. “Not blaming your boyfriend-”

“Best friend-”

“ _Not blaming your man_. I’m just saying I loved my car, okay?” Sam crosses himself, kisses a rosary that isn’t there and lifts it toward the ceiling. “She deserved better than what she got.”

“As I was saying.” Hill rolls her eyes. “Since SHIELD is over, I’ve joined up with Stark Industries. We’ve been data mining the dump all week, much like what you’ve been doing, although I imagine what you have includes some information that isn’t online anywhere. So, SI is going to bankroll you and see to it you have what you need to take out Hydra. This turns it from vigilantism to a mission that falls under the Avengers jurisdiction. Meaning, you get to keep doing your thing and still stay within the law. CIA found the bank, by the way. You can thank Sharon Carter for clearing the security footage of you two before anyone else saw it. Officially, it’s been ruled Hydra infighting. Everyone is too overwhelmed to consider Captain America being the hands behind a massacre.”

“I told you it was personal.” He won’t give on that. He won’t feel sorry for killing a single one of them. And he won’t treat any other Hydra agent with any more mercy than he showed the ones in the bank.

“Natasha is currently wrapped up in her own mission- the data dump contained information she needed to take care of before it became common knowledge. In about a week, she’ll be able to join the two of you. Frankly, you need her.” She looks between the two of them. “Neither of you are exactly spy material.”

He can’t argue that. They’re soldiers and they’re skilled but they don’t have much going for them in the subtlety department.

“This house won’t work for a base of operations. It’s unsecured and too easy to find. We’ve got a safehouse set up for you in upstate Pennsylvania near a private airfield. I’ll be transporting you there on my way back to New York. You’ll be provided with vehicles and a quinjet. All of the tech is secured so you’ll be able to scan your paper documents and upload them. Jarvis will be able to help you decrypt and find patterns. The only people with access to that information will be you two, Natasha, Stark, and myself.”

It all sounds good- _great_ , actually. Everything she’d said about them needing support is true. With Stark Industries backing them, they won’t have to work in a severe budget and they’ll be able to pinpoint bases far faster than they would be able to on their own. But… Tony having access to their information puts Steve on edge. It’s not that he thinks Stark is Hydra, however difficult he might be to be around. But if they get confirmation on Steve’s suspicions of Hydra sending Bucky to carry out the hit on the Starks… that might put Bucky in danger. He doesn’t trust Stark not to go after him. And if anyone has the resources to locate him, it would be Tony. “Do we have a choice?”

Hill looks at him hard. “Look, nobody wants to be the person who tells Captain America that he can’t do something.”

“Are you saying you _want_ -”

“I’m _saying_ that everyone has rapidly come to the realization that Captain America might be a political puppet, but Steve Rogers very much is not. And if you tell Steve Rogers to leave something alone when he’s already set his mind to it, chances are likely he’s going to do it anyway and leave a bigger mess for you to clean up than if you’d trusted him and cooperated from the beginning.” She jerks her thumb toward Sam. “He’s got the right idea. No asking questions, just _I do what he does, just slower_. So please, Rogers. Unless you want to get busted for vigilantism, let us back you.”

“Sam?” Steve looks over at him, questioning. It’s one thing for Steve to set up shop in upstate Pennsylvania for the foreseeable future. He’s got no family, no job, no house. Nothing that ties him to one location. Pennsylvania works for him. But everything that Steve _doesn’t_ have, Sam does. “It’s short notice. You don’t have to feel obligated-”

“If you give me the earnest puppy eyes _one more time_ , Steve, I swear to god.” Sam throws a dish towel at him. Perfect aim versus enhanced reflexes means Steve snatches the fabric out of the air before it whacks him directly in the face. “The job needs to be done. We’re doing it.” He turns his attention to Hill. “When do we leave?”

***

The problem with exposing Nazi secrets to the entire internet is that when they have their tentacles in every file of an organization, some of your own secrets are bound to come to light with them. Natasha Romanoff did _not_ intend to spend her January on a quiet, tidy little murder spree. She’d _intended_ to take a well deserved week off and relax somewhere sunny and warm. But then again, she’s learned to roll with the punches at this point. Her own fault really, for not realizing who she was working for sooner. Still. The past few weeks have been enough to make the stress knots in the muscle at the back of her neck start to develop knots of their own. 

The safehouse that Maria had sent her the coordinates to is less of a _house_ and more of an eerie dark gothic mansion. Halfway up a mountain, surrounded by snowy woods. She’s coming down with consumption just from looking at it. As she pulls her car up the overlong drive, she can see Steve- shirtless- aggressively tearing into a stack of logs with an axe even though there’s already a pile of split firewood a full story high along one side of the house. Don’t get her wrong, Natasha likes Steve. On good days, he’s easy to get along with, smart, intuitive, and a good leader. With people he likes, he’s kind and earnest and funny. He can be a _rude_ bitchy little shit, but he only turns that side of his personality on the people that deserve it. No one wears scorn like Steve Rogers.

On bad days, he’s a fucking nightmare. Unpredictable, won’t listen to anything but his own opinions, can’t sit still worth a damn. He’s got anger issues oozing from every pore on his genetically engineered body. 

She has the sinking feeling they’re looking at a _lot_ of Steve Rogers Bad Days over the next however long it takes for them to wipe Hydra off the map. 

“Rogers,” she steps out of her car and slams the door shut, startling a few birds out of the nearby trees. “I thought you had gunshot wounds to heal.” To look at him, you’d never know he’d recently taken a bullet to the gut. His abdomen is as smooth and scar free as the day he’d stepped out of that radiation chamber with a perfect new body. 

“I thought you had people to kill.” He drops his axe and swipes a hand over his sweaty brow. Fucking supersoldier genes. It’s twenty degrees out. “Covers to build.”

“Been there, done that. It’s old news now, Steve, keep up. See?” She reaches up and pulls off the beanie she’s wearing, letting the new dark brown hair come tumbling down around her shoulders. “Did you think I’d let you boys have all the fun without me?” 

“Not that much fun right now.” Steve kicks at a log, hard enough to send it flying into the woods somewhere. His face is pinched, stormy eyes and mouth tight. “We have information and locations on _several_ bases and Hill won’t give us the all clear to go in. And there hasn’t been a single sign of-” He cuts off, clenching his jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

Natasha has had enough experience with Steve to know that if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there’s not a thing in the world that will get the words to pass his lips. And if he _does_ want to talk, he’ll say what’s on his mind, no hesitation. So she doesn’t press. Honestly, she doesn’t need to. It’s easy enough to read his angst ridden expression, the slump of his shoulders and know exactly what’s bugging him. The Winter Soldier is in the wind. She’s been monitoring for any sighting reports of him- not _just_ for Steve’s sake. The truth is, the Soldier is one of the few people that has ever genuinely scared her. It’s disconcerting, to not be the best. To know _this guy could really get me_. 

Steve is fully convinced that the guy has broken through seventy years of brainwashing and amnesia, that a couple of words managed to bring Bucky Barnes back to life. Natasha isn’t so sure. Even if he _has_ defected- not impossible, she did too, after all- it’s not gonna be sudden clarity. If he’s running, good for him. She isn’t without sympathy. Chances are likely, he’d want to lay low, but if he remembers particular handlers or people connected with his torture, he’ll probably be looking to take them out before they get to him first. And he probably doesn’t remember clearly enough to look at Natasha and think _we’re the same_. He’d look at her and associate her with Siberia, with the Red Room, with pain and forgetting. Natasha does _not_ want to run into this guy, no matter how badly Steve wants to hold his hand and run off into the sunset or whatever. 

She steps toward the house and beckons Steve to follow her. “Come on. There’s more than enough firewood and I’d like to put your super hands to use on the ache in my neck. You can brief me on what you have when we’re inside.”

The foyer is exactly what she would expect it to look like based on the outside of the building. Gaudy dark purple and red decor with black accents. One wall is lined with dead butterflies pinned inside frames and there’s a wrought iron standing coat rack next to the door. Wherever they’d coughed up this place from, it was never on SHIELD’s safehouse radar. “This place Stark’s?” She drops her hat on the table against the butterfly wall, looking over her shoulder at Steve.

“I have no clue, actually. It has Jarvis, so I guess.” He jerks his thumb at a heavy looking wooden door. “This way.” 

He leads Natasha down a dark hallway that opens up on the north side of the house to what might have been a dining room originally but the long table is half covered in file boxes and the other half is littered with notepads, old coffee cups, several laptops, and various weapons. “Organized,” She murmurs, pulling out a chair and flipping it around to straddle. “Alright, Rogers.” She slips the elastic off her wrist to tie her hair up into a ponytail and then tips her forehead against her folded arms on the back of the chair. “Massage and catching up now. Mission plan later. I’m here now so you can probably get the all clear to stop aggressively chopping wood and instead put that axe in the faces of Hydra agents, which is what I know you really want to do.”

Steve’s hands are warm when he lays them on the back of her neck, thumb sweeping down from her hairline, along the line of her spine. Stupid supersoldier serum. Stupid extremities that never get cold. Natasha has gotten used to the constant numbness in her feet, where they never ever get warm. As he methodically works over the knots in her muscles, Steve brings her up to date on everything that’s happened since they parted in that graveyard. “So all of this,” he takes one hand off to wave at the boxes of files, “is from Pierce’s house and the bank vault. We’ve scanned all of it onto Jarvis’ server and then sorted it by date. We’ve been able to build a decent timeline of events and have located multiple Hydra bases- uh. One outside Norwich, Connecticut. Asheville, North Carolina. Halifax. And a few in Europe, too. We have names of Hydra and associates of Hydra.” He starts listing them off, some that she’s heard before, some that she hasn’t. 

“He’s dead,” she interrupts when Steve lists off someone who’s throat had recently been slit in the quiet of the night. It’s not fucking likely they’ll find a body, either.

“Oh.” His hands falter, only for a second. “Well. Good to know. Anyone else?”

She glances over her shoulder and shrugs. “A few. No one else on your list. Their names will probably come up sooner or later, though.”

“And. Um. Have you heard anything about….” 

“No. Sorry. I’ve been keeping a watch but nothing’s come up.” 

He pulls out the chair next to hers and lowers himself into it, shoulders slumped. “That’s a good thing, right? It means he’s staying off radars. If we can’t pin him down, they can’t either.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulls out a neatly folded slip of paper, and lays it out on the table. The handwriting across the page is blocky, pressed into the paper with a little too much pressure in places. Steve traces his fingers over it like it’s something precious. “I don’t know how he knew I’d end up there. But he left me instructions and I followed them.”

She wants to point out that it’s foolish to just assume it was his long lost war buddy leaving him surprise notes. But he’d told her what they found at the bank, told her about the chair and the security footage of who they’d used it on. So, maybe he’s right. Against the odds, maybe he’s right. Steve Rogers is the kind of person that things like this just _happen_ to. “Look, I’m sure he’s doing fine. The best thing you can do to help him at this point is use all of that,” she waves a hand at the files, “to keep Hydra’s attention elsewhere.”

“What are we doing with Hydra’s attention?” They both look over as Sam Wilson comes into the room, a steaming plate balanced in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sets them down and flops into the chair across from them. “Hey, Romanoff.”

“Wilson.” She nods and jerks her thumb at Steve. “How’s being stuck in a house with this one for the past week gone?” 

“Hey!”

Sam snickers. “Well, the first couple of days were fine but when he started acting like a hyper dog that’s been without a walk for far too long, I had to send him outside to do manly things like chop down trees and shovel snow. He was wearing a groove in the floor with his pacing.” He jabs his fork into the spaghetti piled on his plate, ignoring Steve’s glower.

“I can’t just sit here and do _nothing_ -”

“This isn’t like SHIELD, Steve.” Natasha says, because they’re going to be on this mission for _months_ probably and Steve needs to realize now that it’s not going to be all punching and blowing things up every day. “We don’t have a team of hundreds to work on intel. It’s us, it’s Maria, it’s Stark, eventually, but he’s dealing with shit right now like heart surgery and his house falling into the Pacific. The point is, most of this op is going to be ‘sitting and doing nothing’. Or as it’s commonly called, paperwork. It’s gonna be a fucking headache and we’re all going to end up restless. That’s the _job_.”

“I know that, Natasha. I’m not stupid.” He rubs his temples and sighs. “I just think we should be hitting them hard and fast. Don’t give them time to breathe or regroup or organize defense. Hit every base we have before they know we’re coming.”

“We aren’t all supersoldiers, Steve.” Sam points out.

“He’s right.” Natasha rests her chin in her hand. “I’ve been moving constantly for almost three weeks now. I’ll update Maria that I’ve arrived. You pick out our first target and make a plan. Give me twelve hours to rest and we’ll hit them tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

***

It’s snowing again. 

The soft, powdery kind that Steve loves, coming down heavy enough that the whole world feels still and silent. Trapped in a snowglobe. It’s a wonder, after all this time, that he can still find it in himself to love the winter. Winter has held so much pain and suffering and death. Growing up, when he’d get so sick every year. The war, winter when Bucky had ‘died’, winter when Steve had tried to follow him in death. The _Winter Soldier_ and all the baggage that name comes with. And yet it still feels a little like magic when the flakes get caught in his eyelashes, when they dust his hair. He tips his head back and sticks his tongue out, like he’s still a child, determined to build snowmen and have snowball fights even at the cost of getting sick. 

Winter was always hard on Steve’s mother. She worked longer hours because it meant that they’d have the money for medicine and food, but it also meant they barely saw each other. Steve had spent most of the cold months at the Barnes’- though they were just a floor above Steve’s own apartment. The tenement building had shit heating and everyone was pinching pennies but somehow, there was always enough food to go around and Klavdiya Barnes never turned Steve away from the table even though he wasn’t her child. 

There were hearty soups and dense loaves of dark rye bread. On days too miserable to go outside, she’d line them up at the heavy kitchen table- Bucky, Steve, and Revekka, once she was big enough to help- and they’d help her roll out dough until it was paper thin. Hours spent cutting little circles, filling them with meat and then pinching them shut and pulling the edges together. Bucky was the type of child that always wanted to do the most, so he’d have a much bigger pile of finished pelmeni at the end than Steve or Revekka did, but they were sloppily made. Steve, on the other hand, found the art in it. Klavdiya had stood behind him, guiding his hands until he learned how to make the edges perfect, her voice soft in his ear. So, no, Steve didn’t have as many as Bucky did, but what he did have was work that he was proud of.

So the winter might have tried to hurt him at every chance, but it had also given him warmth and home and love. And so, Steve loves the winter right back. 

“You know, the snow is all full of pollution nowadays, you probably shouldn’t be eating it.”

Steve blinks snowflakes from his lashes, looking over at Sam. They’re waiting for Natasha to shut down the security system, to give them the all clear to proceed into the Hydra Connecticut base. It’s listed as research and development and though it’s a small, plain looking warehouse, it’s situated behind a crazy fence and there are cameras everywhere. The doors of the building are heavily guarded with armed men on the ground and snipers on the roof. Whatever they have, they’re extremely interested in keeping it from falling into anyone else’s hands. “I haven’t been sick since 1943, Sam. I don’t think polluted snowflakes are going to be what kills me.”

“Imagine how funny the gravestone would be though. _Here lies Captain America. He died from pesticide residue in the snow he was eating._ ” Sam snickers and tucks his chin deeper into his jacket. “Man, it’s cold as balls out here. How much longer, Nat?”

“Wimp.” Her voice crackles through the earpiece they’re both wearing. “I’m working on it. This is nothing, you should come to Russia in the winter. Then you will know cold.”

“You know, I think I’m good. Thanks for the offer though.” He rubs his hands together. “When this is done, I’m gonna drink a gallon of coffee, I swear.” 

There’s a grunt from Nat’s end of the comms and then, “Alright, boys. All clear to move in.”

Steve pushes himself off of the tree he’s been leaning against. “Sam, get in the air and take out the snipers. Natasha, perimeter guards. I’ll take out the ones at the building. Rendezvous at the west entrance.”

“Copy that.” Sam pulls his goggles down over his eyes and launches into the air, flying up and away. The wings they’d stolen from Fort Meade had been destroyed by Bucky on Insight day but the day they’d gotten to the safehouse, there had been a new set waiting. Courtesy of Stark Industries means they’re better in every way than the last set. He’s a speck in the sky in moments.

Steve slips his arm through the strap on his shield, wraps his fingers around the grip and sprints for the facility. The shield had also been in the safehouse on their arrival and while he has no qualms about fighting with fists and knives, there’s something comforting about having it. The way his fingers fit into the divots worn by his hand on the leather grip, the ease of blocking gunfire and taking out long range enemies. It’s never failed him once.

The first side of the building is easy. It’s the least guarded and Steve has the two men unconscious on the ground before they even fully register his presence. He works his way around the building, methodically disabling each guard, and by the time he reaches the west side, Sam is already there waiting. Steve looks at the knocked out Hydra agents. “Those were supposed to be for me.”

“You were taking too long,” Sam grins at him. His eyes are bright, lips and cheeks already chapping from the wind. But his earlier complaints about the cold seem to be over and he’s back in good spirits. 

They don’t have to wait more than half a minute before Nat joins them. The brown hair is still startling, still makes Steve do a double take. He’ll get used to it, of course, but she’s been a redhead the whole time he’d known her. It’s gonna take a bit. She slips past them to work her magic on the door and in seconds the lock flashes green and they’re in. Steve takes point, signaling for the others to fall behind him. The first hallway is empty, fluorescent bulbs buzzing overhead. At the end it branches off in two directions, one side another dead end hallway and the other a freight elevator. 

Nat tilts her head toward the hall. “Offices. Labs will be downstairs. You two wanna head down and I’ll see what’s up here and get intel?”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s only one button in the elevator and it takes them down like Nat said it would. It’s all too similar to their last descent into a Hydra facility, but this time Steve has to hold back, has to do this the right way. In other words, no violent murder or other human rights violations, no matter that they’re Nazis. Hill had been clear on that. Their job is to incapacitate, collect intel, and then pass the facility and its goons on to one of the alphabet agencies. They’ll make sure justice is served _legally_ , yada yada, they’ll be behind bars for the rest of their lives. Steve’s belief is that all Nazis must die but it’s not like the government cares what he thinks. He adjusts his shield and rolls his shoulders, glancing over at Sam. “Ready?”

“Born ready.”

Well. Natasha hadn’t been wrong when she’d said there would be labs downstairs.Steve barely gets a glance at the sprawling open hall, rooms off to both sides, before someone shouts and he has to jerk the shield up to deflect a volley of bullets. “Shit,” he mutters and pushes Sam to the side. It seems like every person in the facility came running at the first gunshot. “Nat.” He throws the shield, taking out the first line of shooters. “We need you down here.”

“I’m-” she grunts and even over the chaos he can hear the sound of her punching someone, “a little busy here, Rogers.”

Evidently the hallway hadn’t been as empty as they’d thought. Steve whacks a Hydra agent in the head with his shield, sending the woman to the floor at his feet. “We shouldn’t have split up.”

“Little late for that now.” Sam gets out. He’s going hand to hand with two guys at once.

“Sam,” Nat says, “your new goggles have night vision built in, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Good. I’m gonna give you an advantage on them then.” The lights cut out a moment later, plunging the entire facility into pitch darkness.

Steve takes a breath, blinks twice, and smiles. He can see and Sam can see, but Hydra can’t. Not that he couldn’t have taken them without Natasha’s advantage, but it’s just so satisfying to hear them shout in confusion. If there’s a backup generator, it hasn’t come on. He grabs two Hydra agents by the backs of their necks and slams their heads together. Even in the dark, they don’t back down from fighting but it’s a losing battle. It takes him and Sam a fair amount of time to neutralize everyone actively attacking them, knocking some out and restraining others.

“Anyone else?” Steve touches his left eye with a wince. He’d taken a pretty strong punch, the rings the assailant was wearing splitting his skin. It’ll heal fine, of course, but it still stings. 

“Uh. I’m picking up heat signatures over there but….” Sam points off toward one of the rooms and shakes his head. “They’re not really moving. And I think they’re running fevers. Man, these goggles are _crazy_.”

“Hostages?”

“I think so.”

“Nat. Please tell me you can bring the lights back up.” 

“No, sorry. They’re dead for good.” She deadpans. “Give me like… two minutes.”

“Great. Thank you.” Steve paces back and forth until the lights cut back on, bright and sudden. He squints, glancing over the mess of bodies. So, he hadn’t cared to be _particularly_ gentle and a few of those head injuries might be too much for someone unenhanced to make it through. Most of them are just out cold or tied up. Good enough. Several of the techs didn’t seem to have any combat training- a stupid oversight. He looks over at Sam. “Where’d you say you saw the heat signatures?”

“This way.” 

Now that they’re not actively being shot at and the lights are back on, Steve gets a better look at the place. The walls and floor are blank concrete, cold and unfeeling. The elevator had opened into the wide, main hallway. At the back, there are steel tables and workbenches with… sciency looking things on them. Beakers and shit. To one side of the hall, there are two rooms. One, what seems to be a paper records room, and the other is another lab, but this one is sealed off behind thick glass doors with a biohazard warning. Sam leads him to the room on the other side. It becomes clear once they step through the doorway that it’s not so much a room, but a jail. The round space has six cells along the walls. Three enclosed in glass, three with regular bars. They’re all occupied.

“Jesus.” Sam mutters, grimacing. 

“What is it?” Nat asks. “I’m just wrapping things up and then I’ll be down.”

“Human experimenting.” Steve grits his teeth. Each cell has a cot and a metal toilet. In the glass enclosed cells, the occupants are strapped to their cots, straining against the bonds. They’re screaming, it seems like, but the cells must be soundproofed, because Steve can’t hear anything. The prisoners in the regular cells are also on their cots, not strapped down, but they don’t really need to be either. Steve can smell the sick on them even from the doorway. Their foreheads glint with sweat as they weakly toss their heads back and forth. 

Every single one of them is no older than twenty.

He turns on his heel and stomps back to the main hall. The first white coated tech he sees, he bends down and grabs by the collar, yanking her upright. “What the fuck did you do to those prisoners?”

“Volunteers,” the woman coughs out. “They all... signed waivers.”

Yeah… Steve’s all too aware of what you’ll agree to sign up for when you think you have nothing to lose. Every single one of those volunteers is young, probably picked off the streets or straight out of the foster system. “I asked what you fucking did to them. I won’t ask again. _What were you trying to create_?”

“The same thing that’s in your blood right now, Captain.”

“Of course.” He lets go and she drops back to the ground, wheezing. Of fucking course it’s the serum, it’s always the serum. The very thing that had saved his life, ruining the lives of _countless_ others. Sam comes up next to him, one hand lightly on Steve’s shoulder. 

“It doesn’t matter. It didn’t work.” One of the other techs says. This guy looks young, too. “We did everything in Karpov’s journals and… they’re all dying.”

“Who is Karpov?”

“I’ll tell you who he is.” Nat steps out of the elevator, striding toward them. “Vasily Karpov worked with the KGB and the Red Room. I’m assuming he was Hydra as well, since he was heading the Winter Soldier program. He lent him to the Black Widow program once for training in exchange for a few of the weaker girls being traded to him. He was obsessed with recreating the serum. Needed test subjects, I guess. They all failed. He went off the grid in the nineties.”

“But they didn’t fail,” the young tech breathes out, eyes wide and awed. “He succeeded.”

Natasha squats in front of him, twirling a knife through her fingers. “What, pray tell, makes you think that?” She asks softly, deadly.

The guy leans back, swallowing. “It’s all in his journals. Secretary Pierce brought them to us last summer and told us to recreate his work. We’ve only worked through half of the formulas he’s written about. He doesn’t say _which_ one worked, but we know he did succeed. He made five super soldiers.”

“Gonna tell them fuckin’ everything, Hanover? Fuckin’ hell.” One of the guards snaps. “They’re not gonna go easy on you whether you talk or not, so shut your fuckin’ mou-”

“Where are these journals?” Steve interrupts. This Karpov guy… he was Bucky’s handler once upon a time. Wherever these journals are, they probably have information. The kind of information that Steve _needs_. 

“Records room. File box labeled AP49-KARPOV.”

“Jesus Christ.” The guard mutters.

“It’s not like they’re not gonna search the facility anyway, Lowell. This is my life’s work, someone should see it.”

“It’s not your _life’s work_ , dumbass. You’re an intern.”

“Oh yeah, that’ll go over well on job applications.” Sam rolls his eyes. “Interned doing illegal human experiments for Hydra. Please hire me.” 

“Definitely a set of skills you’re going to need in prison.” Nat agrees as she stands. “Alright. I’m gonna call and have the CIA and CDC come in. Biohazards are outside of our jurisdiction. You two wanna go ahead and start on the records room?”

Handing over any serum experiments to anyone makes Steve uneasy, but Nat is right. And people have been trying to recreate it for over seventy years to no avail. Whatever they’ve done here at this facility so far hasn’t worked yet, so letting the CDC take over should be fine. It doesn’t make him less uneasy, but he needs to focus. Bucky is his only priority. 

And Vasily Karpov is a clue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i intend to update next weekend as well but it appears that i probably have covid and im starting a new (remote) job on monday so it will all have to depend on how my week plays out ! stay safe besties


	3. You Never Know How Much You Can Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey besties so quick warning before you go into this chapter there is a SHIT TON of backstory dumping going on and i dont care if thats considered bad writing!!!! i love backstory dumps!!!! this is a self indulgent fic so if i want to wax poetic about their shared past then damn it i will!!!!!
> 
> ok but beyond that, i realized i havent been including sources for my chapter titles so im going to start doing that. this chapter title is taken from the song 'carry the weight' by morgxn. i actually have a whole playlist for this fic, it's kind of a mess right now bc i havent taken time to organize it but if you want, you can listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/29FlJZx4FFH8RRVQ43o30D?si=rFAo_ZseQ3Kx_u9d066Cuw) !! this is the last prewritten chapter i have so i may start having more time between updates if i have trouble writing upcoming chapters. chapter 4 is coming along well at the moment but it turns out that i sadly do have covid and even though im almost two weeks into it and im feeling a lot better im still experiencing exhaustion and frequent severe migraines that affect my ability to focus and write. so please take it from me... for the love of GOD, wear a damn mask. 
> 
> without further ado... the chapter! if you enjoy it or even if you don't enjoy it, i'd appreciate you leaving a comment! i need some entertainment and cheering up while im quarantined and stuck in bed. also if you've read any of my fics before you know i'm always willing to take suggestions so don't be shy if you have any!

At the beginning of this entire mess- or at least the beginning of Sam Wilson’s involvement in it- there had been a little twelve year old in his soul that was crying in excitement because he _got invited to be_ _on Captain America’s team_. It’s lived up to his expectations in that there’s been plenty of punching Nazis and saving the world. But what he hadn’t quite realized was the fact that _Steve Rogers_ is nearly a decade younger than him biologically and while he might be good in a combat situation, he’s pretty shit at taking care of himself outside of that. 

It’s well past midnight, they’ve all already long since split up to go to bed and when Sam goes downstairs to get a snack, there Steve is. Still poring over the Karpov journals that they’ve already translated and read through completely but not quite worked out all the encoded bits. He doesn’t even seem to register Sam’s presence as he walks into the kitchen; his forehead pressed into one of his palms, back hunched as he scribbles frantically into the notebook he carries around. He’s jiggling his knee, heel tapping rapidly against the floor, and his breathing is rough and heavy. 

Sam sighs. “Steve. I thought you agreed to give it a rest and get some sleep. It’ll be easier to come back tomorrow and look at it with fresh eyes.” He pats him on the shoulder as he steps past, headed for the fridge. 

“I know. I-” Steve rakes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “I just can’t sleep. I know I’m missing something. If I can just figure out-”

A less empathetic person might be able to leave Steve to it by himself, to roll their eyes at his inability to take a break. But the truth is, Sam _gets_ where he’s coming from. At least to an extent. He understands what it’s like to watch your best friend in the world plummet to their death. He lives with the guilt of watching it happen and being unable to do anything to stop it _every day_. Sam doesn’t get a second chance with Riley, no possibility of a miraculous rise from the dead when he’d seen his body. But if he _did_ get that, there’s not a thing that could stop him from doing everything he could to avenge him and to reconnect. So yeah. He gets where Steve is coming from. 

“Alright,” he takes the milk from the fridge. “I’m gonna make a big pot of hot chocolate and we’ll keep looking until we figure it out.”

When Steve looks up at him, his eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed. He takes a breath, shaky, and says softly, “Thank you, Sam.” For all his strength and bulk, he looks… kind of fragile. Like all he has to hold onto is this one thing and if it doesn’t work out, he’s going to fall apart. 

The Captain America hero worship that Sam had harbored has been cracking and chipping away over the past month, letting pieces of Steve Rogers show through. He’s liked the parts of Steve that have come to light, like the way he argues over anything for the sake of arguing. Like the way he’s _funny_. And Sam has been trying to treat this like a job, trying to treat Steve- and Natasha- like coworkers. Friends, but in a professional way. After all, they’re Avengers and he’s just… Sam. He needed to keep it cool. But it isn’t until just now that it all falls away and he _fully_ sees. Steve doesn’t need a coworker. He _needs_ a friend. Sam looks at him and he sees a miserable, lonely young man. Younger even than Sam’s little sister. He sees the stark grief written all over Steve’s face, the desperation in his hunched shoulders. 

So he makes the hot cocoa that his mother had always made him when he got upset. He pours them both giant mugs and sits down next to Steve, pushing the drink in front of him. “Here. It’ll make you feel better.”

Steve wraps his hands around the mug and swallows hard. “I’m okay….” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

“No, you’re not.” Sam says, giving him an easy smile. “But it’s okay not to be okay, Steve. Drink your cocoa. Talk about it if you want to or just bring me up to date on all this,” he waves his hands at the papers spread over the table. “Whichever. My ears are open.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve worked out most of the code. It’s just slow going.” Steve pushes the notebook he’s been writing in towards Sam. It’s open to the page he’s been writing on, but there’s a pencil holding a spot on a different page. 

His handwriting gives Sam as much of a pause now as it had the first time he’d seen copies of Steve’s military reports in his history textbook. In this day and age, he’s used to seeing blocky printed words more often than not. Cursive is a dying art. But Steve’s handwriting is… beautiful. Soft swirls, words slanted just slightly to the right. There’s a steadiness to it, even where it’s cramped at the bottom of the page. Sam scans over it, pulls his own paper over to copy the cypher Steve has worked out. “So, where are we?”

“Right. So.” Steve pushes his hand through his hair and taps his pencil against the journal he has open in front of him. “This is from November of 1991. Karpov is talking about how none of the formulas they’ve tried were successful, but he still has hope. Apparently they were in communication with American Hydra and it was passed along that someone whose name is redacted was believed to have successfully recreated the serum. It was going to be transported and they were planning to intercept the delivery and get their hands on it themselves.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Given the timeline… my bet would be on Howard Stark. He died that December. Official report said he died in a car crash because he was drunk, but. Zola all but admitted that Hydra rigged it so I had my suspicions. This pretty much confirms it.” 

“So, after being on the original Project Rebirth team, Stark finally recreates the elusive super soldier serum. Hydra hears about it, calls a hit on him, steals his work, and uses it to create five more super soldiers.” Sam rubs his temples and sips his cocoa. “Have we come across anything on these other five?” Barnes had been difficult enough to deal with even when he’d had Steve wreaking all kinds of havoc on all his brainwashing. The last thing they need is to run into _more_ Winter Soldiers- ones that don’t have a weakness for Steve Rogers’ earnest baby blues. He jots down the last of his cypher copy and starts to nudge the notebook back over. 

It’s only when he disturbs the pages that they flop open to the spot that the pencil has been holding. The sketch taking up the full two pages is rendered in such painstaking detail that, even in charcoal grey, it looks like Bucky Barnes is about to walk right off the paper. Steve has drawn him on the verge of laughter, eyes crinkled at the corners and smile bright. It looks so different from the man that had ripped out Sam’s steering wheel and kicked him off the helicarrier. And yet, the features are the same. Just. When Sam had looked at the Winter Soldier, he saw danger. An enemy. And this is what Steve saw when he looked at him.

It would take an awful lot of studying someone’s features to be able to recreate them with such accuracy. Such… tenderness. 

Steve is saying, “No, I haven’t gotten far enough to find any mention of them succeeding with the serum-” he’s saying that and his voice is trailing off as he looks down at the notebook. Seeing what Sam has accidentally discovered. “Oh,” he whispers, face going white. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, gently closing the cover and pushing the book toward Steve. “I didn’t mean to snoop. The pages fell open.”

Steve stares at the cover, barely breathing. He blinks several times and swallows hard. “No. It’s. It’s okay.” The words come out stilted, like he’s forcing them. “It’s not… I know you didn’t mean to. It’s okay.” 

“Do you wanna talk about him?” It’s the least he can offer. Even though Steve had handed the notebook to him in the first place, it’s clear that the drawing was never something Sam was meant to see. “I mean. I only know him as a guy that’s been trying to kill us. But that,” he points at the closed book. “That looks like someone fun to be around. The history books don’t talk much about him. What was he like?” 

“He _was_ fun to be around.” It’s still hesitant, but Steve looks a little less like he’s about to have a heart attack on the spot. “He… he was so _kind._ He loved his family. His little sister- Revekka- she was born in ‘27 so she was ten years younger than him. There had been another boy, before I met Bucky, before they moved from Indiana to the city. He would have been two years younger than me but they got measles. Bucky survived. Sergei didn’t. He never said it but I think that’s why Bucky was always so protective of us. Me and Revekka. Me because I was so sick and almost died so many times. Revekka because they thought for the longest that Bucky would be their only child. By the time she was born, he was old enough to help take care of her. She adored him. Everyone did.”

Sam can’t quite resist teasing. “So, let me get this straight. The three Barnes siblings were named Revekka, Sergei, and _Bucky?_ How does that happen?” It’s even funnier when he thinks about how Bucky’s the one who ended up being the scariest, most renowned assassin in the fucking world. The guy is a _scary_ motherfucker. No matter how rose tinted Steve’s memories are of him. Sam isn’t stupid enough to _not_ have a healthy fear of him. Even if his name is _Bucky_. 

The jab works though. It gets Steve to start laughing. Softly, but it’s there, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Bucky’s ma immigrated from Russia with her family when she was a teenager. She met George Barnes and they got married and had Bucky. George picked his name- James Buchanan- because he wanted his eldest son to have a ‘ _strong American name_ ’. The other two had their names chosen by Bucky’s ma though.”

“Alright, that makes sense. Still, where’d _Bucky_ come from though?”

Steve flushes a little. “Me. There were too many James’ in our school so I started calling him that and it just stuck. For the longest, he wouldn’t let anyone else call him that. Only put up with me. But later he came around and started preferring it to James or Jamie.” He takes a shaky breath and smiles, but it’s more miserable than happy. “I miss him real bad.”

It would be cruel to offer false hope at this point. To try and reassure Steve with words like _we’re gonna find him, you’ll get him back_. There’s no guarantee of any of that. The poor guy is so goddamn convinced that Barnes had remembered him, that he’d left him a clue on purpose. Sam just can’t be sure of that. He reaches over and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “How are you holding up? With everything happening now, I mean.”

“You know, I told myself when I got out of the hospital that I’d focus on the mission. There’s no room to be upset right now. Over any of it. I have to do what I can to help him and that’s all that matters. It’s always worked for me in the past. Compartmentalize everything that’s happening until there’s time and space to think about it later. But this time- I-” his voice cracks and he clamps his mouth shut, shaking his head. “There’s so _much_.” 

“You can’t pour from an empty cup, Steve.” Sam tells him softly. Before everything went to shit, when Steve had come to the VA, he’d said _I don’t know_ when Sam had asked what made him happy. The remark had been made in an offhand way, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. And yet it had struck Sam hard. He has a sneaking suspicion the answer is Bucky Barnes. And that isn’t nearly enough. It makes Sam want to drag Steve out to do things like… mini golf and movie marathons and fuckin’ wine painting classes, ‘cause the guy is an artist so that’s an interest they should nurture. “You gotta be kind to yourself before you can take care of anyone else.”

“You trying to go all therapist on me?” Steve’s mouth twists into a wry smile.

“No. I’m trying to be your friend. I think you need one.”

The smile turns a little sheepish. “Yeah. I think you’re right.” Steve blushes immediately and glances up at the ceiling. “Jarvis? You got anything for me on Karpov from the data dump yet?”

“I do, Captain Rogers. I’ve just finished decrypting a file and I think you’ll be happy to find that it includes his last known residence. Have you ever been to Cleveland?”

***

Well. Karpov is certainly at his last known residence. Steve breathes shallowly and stares down at the body that’s laid out on the floor. The man that had been Colonel Vasily Karpov has been here a while and he hadn’t met a pleasant end. His dick is chopped off and his tongue removed, bottom jaw crushed. While the cause of death is his neatly slit throat, he’d definitely suffered plenty before he’d been killed.

Steve smiles.

“Dude. That’s creepy.” Sam mutters, shirt collar pulled over his nose and mouth in an attempt to filter out some of the death stench. “Quit smiling like that.” 

“Bucky was here.” 

“I mean, it makes sense. But we don’t _know_ that for sure.”

Steve ignores him and circles around the body, squats down to look at the files deliberately placed close enough to attract attention but far enough away that they weren’t in any danger of being ruined by the blood pool. There’s a sticky note on the top file and his breath catches. Again, the handwriting isn’t familiar and it doesn’t even match the note he’d found in Pierce’s house. But he _knows_. It’s him, leaving scattered puzzle pieces for Steve to find.

The note reads **Vasily Karpov was a high ranking Russian Hydra officer, responsible for coordinating many deaths. Evidence in files taken from his own records. Crosscheck names in files against data dump and eliminate, if possible. Unknown if some mentioned are still active.**

“It’s him.” Steve scoops up the stacks of files and stands, heading over to put them on the cluttered kitchen table. “Who else would it have been?”

“Anyone trying to protect their own interests,” Natasha says, coming up next to him. She picks up one of the files and starts flipping through it. “Karpov was on my list of people I’d like to eliminate but he wasn’t enough of an immediate concern for me to look him up before I joined you. Barnes did have reason enough to go after him immediately since he was a former handler. If he remembered him.” She raises her hand when Steve opens his mouth to protest. “I know you _want_ it to be him, Steve. And I want it to be him too, not just for your sake, but because I don’t want any _more_ stress if there’s some other unknown operative also on a killing spree. _Which isn’t outside the realm of possibility_. So we can hope that whoever killed Karpov is your bestie but we also need to take precautions on the chance that it might be someone else. Just because they killed him doesn’t mean they’re on our side.”

Steve clenches his jaw and doesn’t say anything. He can see the truth in what she’s saying but he _can’t_ believe it. Even with no overt clues that it’s Bucky- not even a handwriting match to the other note- he can’t believe it could be anyone else. There’s every reason that it could be him. He glances through the rest of the files, papers written in the conglomeration of Russian and English that he’s grown used to from hours staring at Karpov’s journals. “We can go through all of this later. We should search the house for any more evidence and call for cleanup.”

It’s a small house, one bed, one bath. It doesn’t take them long to check the entire place but whoever was here before them had evidently already done it. Any evidence is contained to that stack of files that had been left for them. If there had been more, it isn’t here anymore. Because this isn’t an average crime scene, the cleanup crew they call for is through Stark Industries. What had once been a tech giant, a mass weapons producer is rapidly evolving into yet another intelligence agency. Steve isn’t exactly sure that Tony is the best person to be directing that but at least he’s not a fucking Nazi. So. Small miracles. 

When they’re clear to leave the scene, they put the files in the trunk of the car and pile back in, Sam driving, Nat in passenger, and Steve squished in the backseat. Which he doesn’t like, but he’s not stupid enough to ask Nat to trade since she’d taken the back on the trip here. They end up at a small diner along the shore of Lake Erie, crammed into a back booth. Steve orders four burgers and wishes it wasn’t bad etiquette to get started on those files right here and now. Sam excuses himself to the bathroom and Steve’s methodically shredding his straw wrapper when Nat kicks him his ankle. “What?”

“You look depressed.”

“Thanks for the charming observation. I’ll make a note to smile more.” Steve sighs, dropping the last of the wrapper on the table. No, he’s not in a good mood. So what else is new? Despite the fact that _he_ thinks they’ve found Bucky’s trail again, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t tell them much. It points them in yet another direction, but a direction that Bucky is guaranteed not to be in. If he wants them to take care of the people mentioned in the files, then Steve will do whatever it takes to bring them down. And he’ll hope for another clue, something else to go on that might lead him to who he wants to see. 

Bucky wasn’t stupid before the war and now, with the skill Hydra had made him learn, if he doesn’t want to be found, then he won’t be. No matter how desperately Steve searches the world.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he worries that maybe Nat is right and these notes aren’t from him at all. They’re impersonal at best, bare bones of information. It’s all he has to hold on to. 

“What’s wrong, Steve?” Nat kicks him again. “I’d have thought you’d be in better spirits.”

“I’m fine, Nat.” What can he even say? That the mission he eagerly signed himself up for isn’t paying off quickly enough? He’d known it would be long and difficult when they’d started. It’s just so goddamn hard to think of Bucky, out there somewhere, figuring out how to be a person again. All alone. Steve could help him, if he only got the chance. He’d do anything Bucky needed him to do. And that’s the selfish voice in his head speaking, because Bucky’s made it clear with the two notes that what he _needs_ Steve to do is keep fighting Hydra. Needs him to give Bucky the space and time to… heal. Hopefully. 

Steve has always been selfish. Just because he will do it, doesn’t mean he _wants to_. What he wants is to hear Bucky say his name again. He _wants_ to find him, to hug him and never let go. He wants his most important person back and he wants to never let go. Not that Natasha and Sam haven’t been great friends to him, they are. 

But they aren’t Bucky.

After two years to mourn him, you’d think it would have gotten easier, but Steve feels his absence every goddamn day. When he overhears a funny joke, he unconsciously turns to repeat it to someone who isn’t there. When he wants a shoulder to cry on and it hits him that the one he needs isn’t there anymore, it’s like watching him fall all over again. He feels the ghost of Bucky’s arm around his shoulders when he walks down the street and hears the echo of his laughter when he looks into the mirror in the morning and finds his hair sticking up in all directions. Steve had been six years old by the time they’d met but he doesn’t remember life before him. 

“It’s so strange,” Revekka had told him, when he’d visited her a month after they’d woken him from the ice. “To see you without him. Even after all this time. It doesn’t feel right, that he’s not right there beside you. Pushing himself into your personal space the way he did.”

It had been such a relief, to find out that she was still alive. That, despite it all, he _did_ have someone to welcome him back. Of course, there was Peggy and Steve had cared for her, but he hadn’t known her long. In everything but blood and name, Revekka Barnes was as much Steve’s little sister as she had been Bucky’s. He’d made the trip up to Ottawa, where she lived with her daughter Jamie because she was getting old enough to be unable to live alone. Jamie had answered the door and welcomed him with a hug, though they’d never met, and then she’d shown him to the sitting room where Revekka was waiting. 

She’d known he was coming but there was still shock in her voice when he’d walked in. “Steven Rogers, after all this time.” she’d said. “If he could see you now, Bucky would be gloating that he was right all those times when he said you were gonna live forever. If it couldn’t be both of you, he would have wanted it to be you.” 

Steve had crumpled on the spot. His knees in the plush carpet, face pressed against the blanket covering Revekka’s lap, he had cried for nearly an hour over everything he’d lost and would never get back. And even though she’s nearing ninety years old, the Barnes genes have held and Revekka’s mind is still as sound and sharp as it had ever been. 

“I need to go to Canada,” he mutters as Sam returns to the booth.

“What’s in Canada?” Sam lifts his glass, sipping at the bubbly soda he’d ordered. 

“My sister- I mean. Bucky’s sister. Revekka.” He needs to see her again, even though he’d just visited over Christmas. He needs to tell her. Not the full extent of what Bucky went through, it’s too much pain to bear, but she should know. Her brother is alive and kicking. 

Nat sits up a little straighter, looking intrigued. “You think of Bucky’s sister as your sister too?”

“...Yes?” Steve frowns. “I mean, she basically is. We saw each other most every day from when she was born until when I shipped out.”

“So, is that why you’re so intense about finding Bucky? Because you think of him as your brother?”

He has the strangest feeling he’s talked himself right into a trap on accident, only he’s not quite sure what kind of trap it is. Just that it’s there, under the surface. “No.” He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Bucky’s just my… he’s _Bucky_.” By his own logic, he _ought_ to consider Bucky his brother, but even as he thinks it, his mind recoils from the concept. No reason for _why_ it feels wrong, it just _does._ Bucky was his best friend. That’s all there is to it.

Sam elbows Nat but she doesn’t react, other than her shark grin only growing more sharp. He rolls his eyes and looks over to where the poor waitress is struggling to carry a tray loaded with food toward their table. “Oh, look. Dinner. This has been a _fascinating_ discussion, but we’ll have plenty of time to unpack all of that much later.”

“Unpack what?” Steve sweeps the paper he’d shredded into his palm and shoves it into his pocket because it feels rude to have made a mess for no apparent reason. Even if he’d needed something to do with his hands. He slouches down in his seat, hoping to hide how his cheeks heat up as the waitress starts putting his meals in front of him. It’s still weird and awkward how much he has to consume to keep his body going. He hates it. 

Natasha’s gaze flickers to Sam and she presses her lips together. They’re having an entire wordless discussion without him and maybe he’s just too in his head tonight but he has no clue what’s going on. Nat waits for the waitress to leave before she knocks her foot against his under the table. “Don’t worry about it. Just that we’re gonna get your best friend back.”

***

Barnes isn’t quite sure how long he’s been holed up in this safehouse that had once been Alexander Pierce’s, but it’s been long enough that his beard has grown in fully, covering his face in rough hair and making him look even more wild and crazy than he is. He leaves it. It’s a good disguise. Not that he leaves the property. The house is in the middle of nowhere in northern Alberta, Canada. The only things around that might see him are the animals and they’re more interested in scrounging for food. It’s the middle of a long, hard winter. Luckily enough for Barnes, Pierce had set this place up to be self sustaining, stocked with enough supplies to last several years without the need to ever encounter another person. Being the leader of Hydra and the United States Secretary of Defense had paid filthily well, apparently.

It’s not just _any_ miserable, dark safehouse. This place was built to be lived in. It’s a huge cabin design, two stories tall with a deck and a hot tub that Barnes hasn’t touched. It’s got untraceable tech with high speed internet, a luxury kitchen, a movie theater room, a music room, and multiple massive stone fireplaces. And, regardless of the hands it had once belonged to, Barnes is pretty sure he’s the only person on the planet that knows of its existence. It’s the perfect place for him to have time to relax without having to look over his shoulder constantly out of fear that Hydra is right behind him waiting to drag him back to the hell of their own making. 

It’s the perfect place for Barnes to piece himself back together. For _Bucky_ to pick all the locks he’s been caged behind and return to the surface. 

The memories are already there, for the most part. But they’re hazy, uncertain pictures that don’t have _feeling_ to them yet. They’re coming back gradually, as he waits, as he rests. The problem for Hydra had been that when they’d made Barnes their pet murderer, when they’d given him the serum that made him more unstoppable than their wildest dreams, they’d also given him something else. An eidetic memory that _would not_ be removed, no matter how hard they tried. They could suppress it, sure, but he was always there under the surface. If they didn’t fry his brain hard enough, Barnes would show up within hours. His personality came first, long before the memories became vivid. He would remember he was a person and he would remember that he fucking hated Nazis. Didn’t go so well for Hydra. After a while they’d learned the timing and voltage for the chair, learned the right combinations and dosages for drugs to keep him compliant. They’d figured out the Words. But even still, he never, _never_ stopped fighting them. 

This time, he’s back for good. 

They won’t find him here and he won’t leave. Not until he’s sure that he’s in his right mind, that he can do what needs must to ensure that they’ll never be able to make him someone’s puppet ever again. 

He spends most of his time in the music room, because the carpet is thick and soft and his feet sink into it silently. There’s space aplenty to lay out on the floor and drift, or to spread out his work and get lost in it. After a couple of weeks in the house, he’d discovered that he could lay his fingers on the keys of the baby grand piano and music would come spilling out without him quite knowing where he’d learned it.. In the grand scheme of things, being able to play an instrument is of no tactical use to him at this point. But it’s soothing. He likes to lose himself in it. 

He’s learning that he likes a lot of things. As the Asset, he’d never been given the option of having likes or dislikes. But now he makes his own choices. He likes music, all types of it. Likes the way the tunes get stuck in his head and play on a loop all day like his own private radio and how his feet automatically want to step to the beat. He likes pancakes, which he’d learned how to make from following a video tutorial online. He likes the sweet taste of chocolate and the tangy crispness of a pickle, though the jarred kind from the store don’t taste like the ones his mother had canned. He likes wrapping himself up in blankets and sitting in the warm glow of the fire. He likes sleeping for as long as he wants. It’s not easy, of course it’s not. His head hurts all the time, so much damage for the serum to heal and he has nightmares just about every time he falls asleep. But he’s a person now. That has to count for something. 

When he’d stripped Karpov’s house for intel, he’d taken what he thought might be useful to him and left the rest for whoever found the body. There was the book with the words, with the protocols and the horrible, stark details of what, exactly, they’d done to make Barnes comply. He can hardly stand to look at it without his stomach twisting into knots but he needs it to work on getting the words out of his head. Or at least stripping them of their power. 

It sits, scarlet red and foreboding on one of the bookshelves, like it’s just waiting for him to fall under its thrall again. He ignores it. Karpov hadn’t _only_ had information on Barnes. There had also been a file on each of the other five Winter Soldiers that had been created in the nineties. The program was a mess from the start, if Barnes is remembering correctly. They’d chosen the candidates from soldiers in the Soviet army that had shown promise and brought them in for ‘specialized training’. But the new soldiers hadn’t had the years of brainwashing that Barnes had already been through and it had turned out to be more than Hydra had bargained for when they’d been unable to control them. They’d been decommissioned quickly, sent on suicide missions. Four out of the five files he goes through have pictures of their bodies, stamped with **DEATH: CONFIRMED.** The fifth, Josef, was only assumed dead, that his body was consumed in the blast and that was why they’d never found anything. Barnes knows better. There’s every possibility there could be another super soldier out there somewhere- besides Steve Rogers. Whether he’s in hiding or had been picked up by another sect of Hydra or any other agency to be a covert operative, it doesn’t matter all that much to Barnes. When he chooses to leave the safehouse, he’ll need to watch out for him. 

That’s a problem for Barnes to worry about in the future, though. He sits at the kitchen table and watches the snow fall silently as he sips at the mug of steaming black coffee. Today, he’ll try to read the words. Best he doesn’t have much in his stomach when he attempts it. He flips his notebook open and taps the pen against the page a few times. He’s taken to writing down just about everything. Memories, as they come to him. Questions he needs to figure out the answer to later. What he had for lunch. His head is full of the past this morning, full of a memory that had come to him as a dream. In halting, shaky right handed script, he commits it to paper. 

The winter that Bucky had gotten his big growth spurt- he’d been… fourteen? maybe- had not been a good one. It had been bitterly cold and Steve had gotten it in his head that his presence was a burden to everyone so unlike previous years, he had determinedly been spending his time in his own apartment rather than the Barnes’. It wasn’t that Bucky purposely not checked on him. But he’d been so busy. He’d had his first after school job and his class workload was piling up. He’d really thought his mother was keeping an eye on Steve. Apparently she’d thought the same thing about him. Those were the months where sometimes Sarah Rogers would be on shift for _days_. Sometimes she’d just sleep on the cot in the breakroom between shifts rather than trek back home. She could trust that Steve was being looked after by Bucky and his family. Steve was a grade below Bucky, so he was still attending the elementary school while Bucky was going to the high school, several blocks in the opposite direction. For the first time, they weren’t seeing each other in the hallways or eating lunch at the same table. It really was an accident that no one realized until it was almost too late. 

Bucky had just gotten paid and he’d been high on the excitement of the new books he’d handed over his hard earned money for. He’d also gotten a little doll for Revekka and an assortment of one cent candy for the three of them to share. He’d gotten home Friday evening and bounded up the stairs to Steve’s floor. Holding his bounty in one hand, he’d pounded on the door with his other. “Steve, I don’t care that you’re all independent now. You’re spending the weekend with me ‘cause I got real treasure to share and I miss you.” 

The door hadn’t opened.

Not too concerning. He might have been using the privy or working on homework or he might have lost himself in sketching again. Bucky had a key. He’d dug it from his pocket and let himself in. The Rogers’ place was a lot smaller than the Barnes’ own cramped apartment. There were only two rooms and Steve wasn’t in the first one. He’d pushed open the bedroom door and stopped dead in his tracks, heart in his throat. 

Steve had been curled on the mattress, hair matted to his sweaty forehead, still as death. His lip was split and both eyes were blackened. Chest barely rising and falling. Bucky had dropped his ‘treasure’, uncaring about it now. “Steve?” He’d knelt next to the bed, shaking hand pressed against Steve’s clammy cheek. He hadn’t even stirred. “Oh God.” Bucky had whispered. “Oh no.”

He’d pulled back the blankets to pick Steve up, to carry him upstairs where he should have been all along. But when the quilt was drawn away, Steve’s unbuttoned shirt and bare chest was revealed. The entire left side of his torso was purple and black with bruising and his ribcage was… wrong. Caved in on the side. This was more than Bucky could possibly care for.

Steve had almost died.

He’d been in the hospital for weeks and when he’d finally regained consciousness after the surgery, it had come out that he’d been jumped. He hadn’t even started it. Three to one, they’d beat the shit out of him and kicked his goddamn ribs in. He’d managed to drag himself home but he’d passed out immediately afterwards. This had happened two _days_ before Bucky had found him. Bucky had yelled, because he’d been angry. Terrified. Because he nearly lost his best friend. 

Because it was his fault.

He’d been a shitty friend. It would have been so easy for him to stop by Steve’s every afternoon to make sure he was _still_ _breathing_ and he hadn’t even done that.

Barnes writes all these details down in his little notebook, the picture in his head as clear as if it had happened yesterday. He knows it was real, that it was something in his past that had scared the shit out of him and had made its impact on his personality. But he doesn’t feel the fear anymore or the horror. Death happens. The world spins madly on. Christ, little Bucky would have probably very dramatically thrown himself off the Brooklyn Bridge if he’d known he’d be the one beating Steve Rogers within an inch of his life eventually. Barnes frowns. He _doesn’t_ want Rogers to die. The moment on the helicarrier, when he’d woken up in his body and recognized the man beneath him, he’d nearly thrown up. Above all else, he will not kill Steve. Not ever.

Barnes doesn’t like to think about Steve.

When he does, he gets this horrible little ache in his chest and in his arms and in his legs and in his throat. There’s nothing physically wrong with him, but the moment he thinks of the big blond idiot, Barnes’ stupid fucked up body gets this idea that he should leave this safehouse and go _find him_. Which is, logistically, not an option. Rogers won’t be the only one hunting him. And Barnes is nowhere near ready to deal with that. He shuts his notebook and pushes it away. Stands to rinse out his empty coffee mug. 

“Alright, pal.” His opaque reflection stares at him from the window over the sink. “Time to stop putting this shit off. You’re gonna read the goddamn words.” Stomach turning, he heads for the bookshelf. He has to pick up the red book with his left hand because his right is shaking too much. It sits there in his palm, staring at him. “You’re losing it, Barnes.” He mutters.

Alright.

Time to do this. He sits down on the couch and puts the book on his knees, flipping open the cover. It isn’t hard to find the right page; the book naturally falls open to it, far more worn than any other section. He doesn’t remember ever being unable to read Russian. He’d been too smart for his own good as a child and had picked it up simply from sitting on his mother’s lap while she read aloud. He wishes he couldn’t read it now. It hurts, even looking at them. Written in stark black ink on the page. His voice is barely more than a whisper as he reads them out. 

And.

Nothing.

Happens.

Other than the urge to vomit, which truthfully has been there since he decided he was going to read them in the first place. He slams the book shut and tosses it to the other end of the couch. Okay. Alright. So? Two options. Either he’s well and truly broken out of his programming and the words can’t do shit to him now. Or. It doesn’t work if he’s reading them to himself. Someone else would have to be the one to do it. Which means he’d have to leave his safe, secluded cabin. Which means he has to trust someone enough to let them possibly have control of his mind and him. Well. Shit.

His trust is in short fucking supply these days.

...Steve speaks Russian.

Barnes groans and rubs his hand over his face. This is some real bullshit. After all this time, after everything he’s been through, he can’t even check the state of his own sanity himself? He has to get someone else to do it for him? Yeah, that just ain’t happening. The _only_ person he could put his control in the hands of and trust they wouldn’t use it for their own gain is Steve and if he goes to Steve, chances are he’ll never be able to leave again. Whether because one of Steve’s friends finds out and gets Barnes turned in to the American government or because Steve won’t let him go. 

Or, most likely, because Barnes wouldn’t be able to drag himself away again. And he just isn’t ready for that. He doesn’t have _room_ to focus on anything but his own fucked up self right now. Steve just… Barnes doesn’t know a lot about his own emotions. But he knows Steve takes up a _huge_ space in them. He’s a commitment that Barnes isn’t ready to fall back into. Not when he can’t promise he won’t break it.

His head fucking hurts. This is too much. It’s only midmorning and he’s already had it with the day. These are decisions that he can think on more later. For right now, though... the music room is waiting for him. Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah this was a more laid back chapter but i had a lot of fun writing it. even though i kind of feel like the bucky pov scene was a little all over the place i feel like it's fine because his brains are kinda scrambled right now so he cant be a Fully relaible narrator. also as you can see im really going in on the family dynamic that steve has with the barnes' past and present. that'll feature quite a bit in this fic and im really excited for you guys to get to know revekka because i love her to death already ok
> 
> thank u for reading besties!!!! until next time !!!


	4. Catch a Break With Your High Hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good evening besties im back with another installment in this fic that i am starting to suspect is going to be a Monster by the time it's done. i'm past 30k words now and that's where stories always pick up for me and i start really getting ideas and getting into it and boy, oh BOY. this one is Feeding me with ideas. from here on out you can expect the pace to start picking up. this is Kind Of a transitory sort of chapter but i did get emotional writing a few bits of it. 
> 
> chapter title from 'in a spiral' by phantogram.

Sharon Carter has a long list of things she would rather be doing than driving to a dead end town in Nowhere, Pennsylvania. For example, a nice afternoon at the spa. Or a nap. Going on a mission. Or shooting her supervisor who isn’t a Nazi but _definitely_ isn’t a person she wants to take orders from. Strictly speaking, she’s supposed to meet with the Black Widow- who Director Misogynist is very upset with for going solo rather than joining with the CIA like Sharon did- for a secure exchange of intel. She has a small USB drive to hand over, full of information. There’s been noise in Europe. The American branch of Hydra has been taking a hard hit and from what they can tell, the European side is trying to absorb it. To come back stronger.

She’s well aware that Fury is already over there and that he’s definitely in contact with Maria Hill, who will be in contact with Romanoff and her team. But since she’s been relegated to errands and, if she gets lucky, arresting the occasional low ranking officer, she’ll take what she can get. At first, when everything was in total uncontrolled chaos, she’d gotten a lot more work. But now, it’s slowed down. Now it’s ‘We’re sending our manpower in to take care of this. You can help with the paperwork, though!’ Maybe Natasha will tell her something. _Anything_. God, being a new hire sucks. All her work climbing the ranks of SHIELD for nothing. Not that she’d gotten that high. Babysitting Captain America hadn’t been boring- most of the time- but it wasn’t exactly the action packed drama her aunt had described from her days at SHIELD. You know. Until the Nazis taking over thing happened. Not the type of action she had in mind.

She turns down the music as her GPS guides her to the designated meeting place, a tiny cafe. A little bell dings above the door when she walks inside. At first, she doesn’t even notice Romanoff, sitting at a table in the back corner with a coffee and a little pastry already in front of her. Sharon has to do a double take when she raises her hand in a wave.

“I’ll admit,” Sharon says as she walks over and pulls out a chair, “the dark hair threw me off.” The entire time they’d worked together at SHIELD, Natasha had been a redhead. Now her hair is a chocolatey brown, curling around her shoulders. It looks pretty. Soft.

“Ah, yes.” Natasha brushes an invisible strand away from her eyes. “Just felt like I needed a change, you know?” Translation: she needed to be less conspicuous. “How have you been? How’s the new job?”

“Oh, terrible.” Sharon says lightly, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. From the corner of her eye, she can see the waiter heading their direction. “I’m only a step above morning coffee runs and making copies for the office.” She looks up and smiles at the waiter. “Hi.”

“Ready to order?”

“Soy latte and a chocolate croissant?”

“I’ll have that right out for you.”

When he walks away, she turns her attention back to Natasha. “What about you? Traveling a lot?”

“A bit, yeah. Less than my coworkers would like. Lots of paperwork to go through, you know?” She lifts her coffee cup to her lips but doesn’t take a drink, smiling through the steam. “Alright. Enough small talk. Did you bring me a present?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Sharon reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a tube of lipstick. Which is really not lipstick at all and is, in fact, the drive full of intel. “Your favorite shade.”

“You know me so well.” Natasha reaches across the table, her fingertips brushing against Sharon as she takes the drive. Sharon swallows.

The waiter picks that moment to come back with her order and she sits back in her chair, thanking him as he puts the drink and the croissant in front of her. “So. Um. How’s… how’s he doing?” She doesn’t need to clarify who _he_ is. Natasha will know. The truth is, Sharon is a little afraid of the answer. When they’d found that bank vault that Rogers had destroyed and she’d seen- and deleted- the tapes, her entire perception of him changed. 

She was lucky, in that she was able to grow up on personal stories of Steve Rogers from her aunt and from others who had known him instead of only knowing him through the pages of a history textbook. Aunt Peggy had always said he was the kind of crazy bastard who excelled at war because he had more anger than he knew what to do with but too much heart to let it out on anyone he loved. All he needed was a bad guy, a good _target_ and he could let loose. Sharon hadn’t quite expected his _letting loose_ to be so vicious.

Then again, she’d seen the tapes of who Hydra was torturing in that vault.

Aunt Peggy had also said that there wasn’t a thing on earth that Steve Rogers wouldn’t do for Bucky Barnes.

“I told him he ought to call you,” Natasha is saying. “But… his mind is elsewhere right now. Heart too.”

“It’s okay.” Really, it is. She half smiles and shrugs, lifting her coffee. “He’s not my type.” On multiple different levels. She doesn’t want to date her aunt’s ex boyfriend and the truth is, even if she did want to, he’s more than Sharon is capable of handling. Even aside from the display of violence, she’d been the one monitoring him for a year. He’s a good guy, but he just isn’t a good match for her. Truth be told, her eyes stray more towards the woman sitting across from her right now. Not that she thinks she would have a chance there either. “Just give him my best, will you? Tell him… that antique he’s looking for… I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open too. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first people I contact.” 

“You sure about that? It’s got a high price on it.” 

“Positive.” Sure, _if_ she got word of Barnes, she’d be expected to turn him in. The government hasn’t quite put together who the metal armed assassin _is_ , but they’re looking for him. As it stands, they only know he was Hydra, which means they either want to throw him in a cell somewhere and forget where they put the key or they hope they can use him. And she won’t be part of that happening, even if she runs the risk of losing her job over it. But if Rogers wants to bring him home free and clear, he better have some damn good lawyers ready too.

Natasha looks at her, pursed lips and calculating eyes that make the back of Sharon’s neck prickle. Gradually, her mouth softens into a smile. “Shame your company snapped you up. I could use another girl on my team.”

***

The driveway in front of Jamie Proctor’s house is in desperate need of shoveling. Steve parks his rental by the curb and takes a deep breath, hands spasming around the steering wheel. Six hour drive from the safe house to Ottawa and he still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to say. The whole team is taking the weekend “off” after finding Karpov’s house and then hitting the Hydra base in Asheville two days later. It had turned out to be minimally staffed with nothing of use to them, but they got some Nazis thrown in prison so it wasn’t a total waste of time. Natasha had filled her three day weekend with meetings. Sam is spending his time at his mother’s. 

Steve gets to tell Revekka her brother is alive after all.

He grabs his duffel from the passenger floorboard and trudges up the dark snowy yard to the front door of the house. The closer he gets, the more he can smell something hearty cooking. It smells like home. He swallows hard and presses his finger on the doorbell. 

“Coming!” Mere seconds pass before the door is pulled open and Jamie is ushering him inside with a bright smile. “Steve!” She throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes lightly before stepping back. “So good to see you again. How was your drive?”

“Not too bad.” He pushes his hair off his forehead. “A little traffic in a few places but other than that, smooth sailing.”

“Good, good. Well, your bedroom is all ready for you to drop your stuff and Mom is in the kitchen. She wanted to supervise dinner to make sure the borscht was done _right_.” Jamie laughs and shakes her head. “It’s just about ready. Hope you’re hungry.” 

“Starved,” he hugs her again, an arm around her shoulders and a kiss pressed lightly against her temple. It’s a strange dynamic. Here’s this woman who is technically decades older than him but in a different life would have grown up with him as an uncle figure. The way he and Bucky had both doted on Revekka, most likely their Sunday dinners might have been spent showering little Jamie with gifts and attention. Steve might have taken her to the Met on summer afternoons, he might have taught her to draw. Instead, she treats him not dissimilarly to her own son, who Steve has met a few times. But regardless. Jamie Proctor is family and there’s no place in this modern new world where Steve feels at home more than he does right here in this house.

In the guest bedroom upstairs, the quilts are already turned back and the lamps are on. Waiting for him. Welcoming. He drops his bag at the foot of the bed and sits down to unlace his boots. He makes his way back downstairs in socked feet, following the soft murmur of voices and clinking dishes to the kitchen. Jamie is at the stove, ladling steaming borscht into bowls while Revekka sits at the table. 

She looks up as he walks into the room and her face splits into a smile that, even seventy years later, still has the edge of mischief sweetened by dimples. “Stevie.”

“Revekka.” His chest aches; the word hard to get out. He crosses to the table and half squats, half bends to hug her, pressing his face against the top of her head. “How’ve you been, Trouble?”

“You come into my house and call me names?” She pushes against his shoulder, no force behind it. He leans back so they’re face to face and her hand comes up to press against the side of his face. “I’ve been worried about _you_. We’ve been watching the news. They called and said you were in the hospital.” Her eyes glitter with unshed tears. “Fuckin’ Hydra. All these years and they’re still not gone. I’m so sorry, Steve.”

“Hey, don’t worry about me.” He forces a smile. “I got a little beat up, but I’m _fine_. Not even a scar. But hey, at least I’m fighting against Hydra now, instead of with them.” Really, he’s the one who ought to be apologizing. And he will. But he’ll wait until they’ve gotten through dinner to drop the bombshell.

“Just because you ain’t got a scar doesn’t mean it didn’t do damage.” Revekka pats his cheek once before her fingers start tracing over his face. “You’ve got dark circles so bad you look like yourself again. Almost never saw you without a black eye or two. Are you sleeping?”

No. Truthfully, he isn’t. He gets lucky to get a couple of hours per night uninterrupted. He’ll lie awake for hours mentally going over everything they’ve come across that might be a clue that’ll lead him towards Bucky. When he finally drops off, his sleep is plagued with nightmares. The old ones, of the war and of Bucky falling. And the new ones. The ones where he kills the Winter Soldier before the mask comes off. The ones where he’s watching that tape of Bucky being tortured over and over. The ones that are really just memories. Bucky beating the everloving shit out of him on that helicarrier, eyes completely empty of remembrance. “I’ll be okay,” he whispers, putting his hand over hers on his face. “Let’s eat, yeah?”

He helps Jamie get the food on the table and they settle in. Steve really is starving- he hadn’t stopped for food on the road, relying on the stash of snacks he’d packed to power him through the drive. He goes through two bowls of soup before his stomach has calmed down enough for him to enjoy his third at a sedate pace. 

Jamie tears off a piece of her bread and dips it into the last of her soup broth. “So, what is it you do now? Since SHIELD has been dismantled?”

“Technically, I’m with Stark Industries.” Steve sighs, taking a sip of his water. “I had offers from… just about everyone. FBI, CIA, Homeland Security. But I needed more agency over my missions than what they offered. So I’m in a division of SI that falls in the Avengers jurisdiction. Basically, I don’t take orders from anyone.”

“But you are still on active duty?” Revekka frowns at him.

“Yeah. It’s kind of complicated.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right now, I have a very specific mission. A lot of paperwork, not a lot of action. Yet.” The two women are finished with their food so he takes the last few bites of his and then sits back. “Listen, I. I came here for a reason. Not just to visit, although that too. There’s something I have to talk to you about.”

Revekka frowns, “What is it, Stevie?”

He takes an unsteady breath. Maybe he should have dropped the news before he ate because his stomach is in knots now. “What I’m about to say is between the three of us. It is _vital_ that you don’t tell this information to anyone. It is so deeply classified that most of the government _still_ isn’t aware of it. It’s also something that you need to know.” If Bucky has recovered his memories, there is every possibility that he might eventually show up here unannounced. He’d be in no danger by visiting Revekka like he might be with Steve. Revekka is nearly eighty eight years old. She’s in no shape to try and detain him. Steve looks down, takes a breath, and looks back at her. “Do you remember in ‘43 when they had Bucky at Kreischberg? It was my first real mission, rescuing him?”

“I remember.” Revekka says softly. “We got a telegram. Killed in action. I answered the door and I just screamed and Mama came running. We cried all week. And then… then we got another one. From you. He was alive. You saved him.”

“Revekka,” he swallows. “They _did_ something to him there. I knew he was different but I thought it was just the war that had changed him. It wasn’t just the war. _Hydra_ changed him. They made him like me.” 

At this, Jamie looks at him sharply, her face going pale. “What are you saying, Steve?” She’s every bit as smart as Bucky and Revekka, smart enough to guess at his reasoning for telling this story.

The words come out in a whisper. “I’m saying Bucky Barnes didn’t die falling off that train in ‘45. I’m saying he’s alive.” Dead silence follows his words. The two women are staring at him, muted shock. Slowly, Revekka brings her hand up to cover her mouth, eyes filling with tears. God. Steve might throw up. Talking about Bucky with his team is hard but not like this. They’ll never be able to understand the horror of it, even though they believe that what was done to him was appallingly wrong and inhumane. How do you tell the girl who thought the sun rose and set on her big brother that he might not even remember she exists? She’d been sixteen when they’d left for war. Sixteen and so excited whenever Bucky came home on leave from boot camp because she was finally allowed to go out to the dance halls, so long as he went with her. “Revekka.” Steve reaches across the table and takes her hand in his. “He… he didn’t even know his own name. He didn’t remember _me_. At least not at first.”

“But he-” her voice breaks, “he remembers now? Is he _here_?” She wipes at her cheeks with shaking fingers. “Did you bring him here with you?”

“Oh, Revekka.” It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might think that. “I’m sorry. He isn’t here.” Steve swallows. “I don’t know where he is.”

“I think you should start at the beginning, Steve.” Jamie says softly.

“Right. You’re right.” He rubs his free hand over his burning eyes and takes a steadying breath. “When Bucky fell, it was something like eight thousand feet down onto rocks and ice. Nobody thought he would have survived it. We were in the middle of a mission. They wouldn’t let me look for a body. I didn’t look for him. I _should have_ looked for him. Because he did survive. And the Soviets found him. I don’t know everything.” Truthfully, he knows far more than he’s going to let on to either of them, but he isn’t lying. They only know what they’ve found, but they don’t have the full story. They may never know the full story. “At some point he lost his left arm and they gave him a prosthetic. I know they had technology that they used to wipe his memories and I know they trained him and turned him into a Hydra agent. It was….” he can’t look at either of them. “It was really bad. They had him frozen in stasis between missions, not unlike how I was in the ice. When everything went to hell in DC, Hydra sent a masked agent after me and my team. He nearly killed all of us. It wasn’t until I got the mask off of him that I realized. He was standing there looking like he hadn’t aged a damn day. And when I said his name, he said _who the hell is Bucky?_ ” 

It’s still a twist in his gut to say those words. Steve’s had a lot of shitty moments in his life but that… that one ranks up there at the top. He hadn’t even had time for the elation of Bucky not being dead to set in. “I ran into him again later in the mission. He was on the third helicarrier when I got there. We fought. He shot me three times and then punched the shit out of me but… I was talking to him. I think… I think at the end, he remembered. At least something. Because he stopped hitting me and he looked like. Like he remembered. He looked horrified. And then we both fell. I passed out before I hit the water and then I woke up in the hospital a day later. They say someone pulled me out of the river and left me where EMTs would see me. It had to have been him. But he disappeared. I’ve been looking for him ever since. We’ve been monitoring all the chatter and there’s been no mention of him. Best I can tell, I think he’s in hiding right now.”

They both look shellshocked. Pale faces, staring at him across the table in sick horror. He knows the feeling too well. Every time he uncovers more information on what was done to Bucky, it’s like finding out for the first time all over again. Slowly, shakily, Revekka pushes her chair back and stands. He turns in his seat to face her as she walks up to him. “It’s not your fault, Steve,” she says softly, and hugs him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I-” he can’t get any more words out. Everything he’s been pushing down comes flooding to the surface, choking him. He presses his face against her shoulder and swallows hard against the sobs that want to come. It’s one thing for his team to tell him that he isn’t at fault for what happened to Bucky. It’s something else coming from family. “I’ll bring him home, Revekka. I _promise_. I’ll bring him home.” He will never, _ever_ stop looking. 

“Sweet Stevie. I don’t think you’ll have to.” She leans back, wipes the wetness from his cheeks. “You were his world, you know? When he’s ready, he’ll come to you. He never was able to stay away.”

They clean up the kitchen in silence. Steve is exhausted, physically and emotionally and neither one of them seems to be doing much better. He waits until Revekka has retreated to her room for the night before he goes to find Jamie in her office. “Can I come in?”

She’s sitting at her desk, head in her hands. The room is lined wall to wall with bookshelves, crammed with giant medical texts. As much as the Barnes’ have had an effect on Steve’s life, so too has he had an effect on theirs, even generations later. Or, at least, his mother did. Revekka had become a nurse like Sarah Rogers. Jamie is a pediatric cardiologist. And her son has followed the path too, in his fourth year of medical school. “Of course,” she sits up straighter and waves a hand at the armchair. “I’m trying to believe it,” she says softly as he sits. “I _ought_ to be able to believe it, after you. It’s hard.”

“It took me a little while, too.” He hugs the throw pillow to his chest and shakes his head. “Sorry we keep spontaneously resurrecting and shaking up your world.”

“Don’t be.” She smiles, but it’s small. More sad than anything. “Mom’s been happier since you woke up than she had been since Dad died. And now with him….”

“It’s not the same,” Steve whispers. “He isn’t… he won’t be what she remembers. Listen, I don’t want Revekka to know unless he chooses it but. What happened to him? It was worse than anyone would ever be able to imagine. I want to believe he remembers. At least a little. But I haven’t seen him since the helicarriers went down. And I just don’t know.” All he has is hope. From the way Bucky had looked at him right before he fell into the river and from the video in the bank vault. He’d remembered Steve, when all Steve had said was his name. 

“You talk about him like you know he does.”

“ _If_ he does… he might show up here.” He shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be hard for him to find you, if he wanted to see her. If he does come here, you have to remember he’s _dangerous_. For the past seventy years, his life has been nothing but pain and killing. If he gets spooked and freaks out, he could hurt you without even realizing he’s doing it. I didn’t come here _just_ to deliver the news. I brought security tech with me. If it’s okay with you, I’ll set it up tomorrow. It’ll let you easily notify me if he does show. In the case of that happening, I would get on a jet and be here as fast as possible. At this point, we really don’t have any tech that you could use to disable him if he’s violent. I think some people are working on it but… it took everything I had to fight him, even when I didn’t know who he was beneath the mask. I don’t mean to freak you out. I highly doubt he’ll show and if he _does_ he won’t be coming with violence on his mind. I just want you to be prepared.” He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t lose any more family.”

***

Natasha breezes into the Stark Tower meeting room with a coffee in each hand. The nice thing about Maria Hill is that when it comes to caffeine, she and Natasha are on the same page. They want their coffee black and strong enough to stand on its own. Such is the life when you have the kind of job that they do. Don’t get her wrong, Natasha enjoys tea occasionally. Like a friend going cold on her nightstand in the evening. But coffee… coffee is what keeps her going. Mission after mission, through the days where she might not get any sleep at all. “Hey,” she hands one of the cups to Maria and shakes the remaining one, ice rattling against the plastic cup.

“What about me?” Tony Stark scowls at her, far more put out than he should be over a coffee that she got in the damn lobby of his building.

“What about you?” Natasha flops into her seat and takes a sip of the drink. “I’m not your personal assistant anymore. I’m sure you have another one by now.” 

“You’re not Hill’s assistant either but you brought her coffee,” he gestures at Maria. 

“I like Hill.” Truthfully, she hadn’t even been warned that Tony would be at this meeting. She’s not _that_ much of an asshole that she would bring drinks for everyone but him even if it is kind of funny. As far as she’d known, he’d still been off recovering from surgery and having bonding time with his _literally_ smoking hot girlfriend. “When did you get in?”

“Last week. I was so _disappointed_ you guys didn’t invite me to the party in DC. But at least I made it to the afterparty.” He scratches his jaw. Despite the blithe attitude, he’s got shadows under his eyes. “Ready to rock and roll and kick some Hydra ass. From a distance, of course. I kinda promised Pep I’d lay off being Iron Man. I’m sure Rogers is in his element, though.”

“And then some.” Maria mutters.

Natasha hasn’t seen the footage from the bank, but she’s heard the story. From Maria, from Sam, from Sharon, even from Steve himself. None of their versions fully matched up, but she can parse it together. In the end, all that really matters is that Steve went a little off the deep end. People died. Natasha is the very last person on the face of the earth who can judge him for that.

Truthfully, she can probably even cop to being a bad influence on him. She _likes_ to think that in tough situations, people think to themselves ‘ _what would Natasha do?_ ’. And while Steve developed his anger issues all on his own, if he’d asked her, she’d have probably encouraged him to take it out on those Nazi cunts. Not that she’d admit to it if Fury or Maria questioned her on it, but her first thought when she’d heard the story was _good for him_. 

Natasha sits up straighter as the screen on the wall flickers to life with Fury calling in from Europe. He looks tired but overall better than he had looked the last time she’d seen him, when he’d still been healing from the damage Hydra had done to him.

“Love the new look, Romanoff,” he says in greeting. “Stark. Hill. How are things on that side of the pond?”

“Calm as can be expected.”

“Which is to say,” Stark interrupts, “not calm at all. Hell of an anthill that Rogers kicked.” He grimaces. “From what we’ve heard _you’ve_ got trouble.”

Fury sighs and leans back in his seat. “Might as well get right into it. Natasha, what are the odds that you can convince Rogers to table his little game of hide and seek for now?”

She raises her brows. “It’d take a hell of an incentive.”

“American Hydra is scrambling right now. They’ve already lost their most powerful players. The ones they have left have gone to ground or else they’ve come over here.” Fury says. “And the various European branches are vying to become the next top dog. I’ve got reports of mercenaries popping up across the continent. I’ve got whispers of human experimentation. I’ve heard of a guy that’s got alien tech. Possibly Loki’s scepter. I need you over here.” He hesitates. “You could tell Rogers there’s been word on the acquisition of a powerful asset. If that would get him to come.”

“Is it _the_ Asset, though?” She doesn’t mind lying, as a principle. But she’s not going to lie to Steve, not about this if it isn’t Barnes or the possibility of him. The poor guy is about at the edge of a mental breakdown already. He doesn’t need the stress of thinking that his boyfriend has been recaptured by Hydra. Even if it would be an incentive to get him to tear through every base in Europe with the wrath of God. Granted, maybe he would finally get a clue. Best she can tell, Steve doesn’t even realize he _has_ feelings for Barnes beyond friendship. They’re written all over his face every time he’s even _thinking_ about him, but every time she’s casually alluded to it in conversation, he just looks at her blankly. Sam says he needs time. 

Natasha just thinks it would make all their lives _so_ much easier if someone just told him. At least then he’d be _aware_ of his little yearning sighs and whatnot. 

“No.” Fury says flatly. “We don’t think it’s Barnes.”

“Okay, then. Rogers doesn’t need to hear about it. Not if he doesn’t have to.” She takes a long drink from her coffee. “I’ll get him over there but unless you’re _positive_ that they have Barnes, don’t even mention the possibility to him.”

“Not a problem. _Nobody_ wants to deal with what that would turn him into.” Fury looks exhausted. “I know that he’s your friend for whatever reason, but the guy is a loose screw, Natasha.”

“He’s not a loose screw. He’s just-”

“For the record.” Tony announces. “I never liked the guy.”

Maria rolls her eyes. “We know.” She turns her attention to Natasha. “Do you think you can be ready to fly out by Monday morning?”

That gives her one day to get Steve on board. And he’s in fucking Canada right now. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

***

Barnes leaves the safehouse.

See. The thing is. He doesn’t really _want_ to. But at this point, he’s got about all the immediate benefits that he can from resting. His body is functioning. No more constant migraines, no more puking his guts up for various reasons every day. He’s alert, he’s got his memories back with only a few gaps that he can tell, and he can’t sit around any longer, no matter how nice it is. And if he’s being truthful with himself, once he got settled into the niceness of it… it very quickly became lonely. He’d always been a damn social bastard, curse him. 

He’d spent his youth surrounded by family and friends. He’d spent the war with his fellow soldiers, crammed into each other’s personal space twenty four fuckin’ seven. And he’d liked it that way. Being in solitude is only nice in that he hasn’t had to worry about being in any danger. Other than that, despite the luxury of the accommodations, the longer he stays, the more it reminds him of the years he’d spent entirely alone in a cell. Because he hadn’t become the Soldier overnight, oh no. Between his fall and becoming the _fist of Hydra_ there had been about five years- close as he can tell- that the Soviets had kept him in a damp, cold cell somewhere. They’d had instructions from Zola to keep him alive but they didn’t really know what to do with him beyond that. 

At first, he’d been in a medical ward while his jagged stump healed. The moment he was lucid, he had taken out two of the guards, even weak and disoriented. When they realized he was fluent in Russian and could understand every damn thing they said- after he’d furiously called them every bad name under the sun- they hadn’t hesitated to throw him in a cell far from where he could hear them speak. And there he had stayed, rotting away for five years until Zola came and took his memories and the rest of his arm.

So. Yeah, the outside world might be dangerous. There might be a million different government organizations hunting him and Steve might be on his trail at every turn- he’s finding it a little hard to dread that- but he _can’t_ spend another five years here. Alone and rotting. The memories from those years came to him slower. But when they had appeared and he’d realized what he was doing to himself… it became apparent shit needed to change. He’d spent a tearful, panicked hour in front of the bathroom mirror in the middle of the night, frantically hacking away his overgrown hair and beard with kitchen scissors. One moment he’d been planning on keeping it as a disguise and the next his skin was crawling because it was too much like the years in the cell. He hadn’t had a haircut or a shave or any way to properly clean himself for all that time. By the time Zola arrived, he’d been sporting a bushy beard and long hair, matted with filth.

Whatever the risk, he _won’t_ be that again.

Thank fuckin’ god for winter. He lands his sleek little stealth jet in a field outside of Edmonton and hikes it into the city with a beanie covering his jagged haircut and a thick scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. A heavy coat and gloves conceal his left arm. Nobody looks twice at him. He stops at a beauty supply store and gets a pair of cheap electric clippers that he plugs in in the bathroom of a Starbucks and shears the rest of his hair down close to his scalp. He picks a guy that’s dressed like he comes from money and lifts his phone right from his pocket while the guy is distracted yelling at the barista. 

Armed with a paper bag full of all kinds of pastries, he finds a small camp of homeless and flops down on the ground next to them. “Hi,” his voice is rough after weeks of hardly using it. “Are you hungry?” He starts passing out the food, keeping the fudge brownies for himself. Sure, he could have just grabbed a seat in the coffee shop to eat, but that would have required him to remove his face covering where people might actually pay attention to him. Here, he can duck his head to pull the scarf back long enough to shove the brownie in his mouth and wrap his face back up before anyone can get a good look at him. Most of them have retreated back into their tents with their bounty anyway.

“Hey, thanks dude.” A scrawny little guy says, around a mouthful of blueberry muffin. He’s got limp brunette hair sticking out from under the edges of his hat, but his nose is crooked and bright red from the cold. 

Beneath his scarf, Barnes’ lips twitch into an almost smile. “It’s no problem.”

“I’m Elliot.” He sticks his hand out toward Barnes.

Hesitantly, Barnes clasps it and gives it a tiny shake. “...Yasha.”

“I haven’t seen you around before,” Elliot pulls a little straw looking device from his pocket and puts it to his lips, inhaling. When he exhales, it releases a cloud of vapor.

“Oh. I’m.” Barnes shakes his head. “I’m just passing through.” He’s got the bare bones of a plan to go on at this point. What he knows is that there’s a chance that his trigger words are still active so he needs to eliminate anyone who might know them before they can be used against him. Thanks to Pierce’s tech at the safehouse, he has access to private Hydra databases with names and coordinates and encrypted messages. He’s been keeping up with the news from DC too. The east coast Hydra cells have taken it the hardest, getting wiped off the board completely. So he doesn’t need to worry about them. There were only a few people who even knew about the Asset while he was in Pierce’s hands. What Barnes didn’t take care of himself, Steve has. They’re saying someone massacred everyone who was at the bank. That’s not a coincidence after Barnes had left a note pointing Steve right to them. So Barnes is headed to Europe with a list of names.

But there’s someone he has to see first.

It’ll be a risk, for sure. But his sister is turning eighty eight this year and if he doesn’t see her now then he might never get the chance again. He’s well aware that Steve is probably already monitoring their house for him. Because he _knows_ Barnes and Barnes knows him. He knows Steve would expect Barnes to visit Revekka. The moment he’d looked her name up and figured out she was still alive, visiting her got bumped to top priority upon leaving the safehouse. The smart thing to do would be the exact opposite of what Steve anticipates of him. But Barnes hasn’t seen his sister since 1943, when his family saw him off at the docks. He already missed the deaths of his parents. He won’t let the same thing happen with Revekka. He’ll be quick. By the time Steve figures out he was there, he’ll already be gone. 

“I’m on my way to see my sister,” he says finally, looking over at Elliot. “It’s been… a really long time.”

“I get that, dude.” Elliot shrugs, taking another puff of his straw-thing. “Families can be tough. Mine kicked me out ‘cause I was getting in all kinds of trouble, you know? I’m trying not to do that shit anymore but now I can’t go home.”

Barnes leans his head back against the concrete wall, tucking his knees closer to his chest. “How old are you, kid?”

“Eighteen.”

“Christ,” Barnes mutters. It hadn’t been uncommon when he’d been growing up for kids to be on their own by that age but he’d figured the future would be better about that. There shouldn’t be teenagers freezing beneath bridges because their parents threw them out. Now he’s not gonna be able to leave this alone. Too many years looking out for Steve Rogers and now it's so burned into him that he’s looking at this crooked nosed kid and all he can think is he has to do _something_. “What kind of trouble?”

“Um… graffiti, mostly. And fights. I had a couple of friends who were selling stolen car parts but I never got in on that shit, I swear.”

Graffiti. Goddamn graffiti. That’s what did this kid in? “That ain’t nothing,” he murmurs, so low that Elliot doesn’t even react, the words too muffled by Barnes’ scarf. “Alright.” He pushes himself to his feet and holds one gloved hand out to the kid. “C’mon.”

“Huh?” Elliot blinks up at him, brows furrowed.

“Look, pal. I’ve been… not the greatest person for a really long time. I’m trying to turn my life around and start helping people instead of hurting them.” Barnes shakes his hand back and forth, waiting. “You’re just a kid. You fucked up a little but you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Maybe you can’t go back home. I can’t either. I know it’s tough. But you can build a new home. All I can do is give you a leg up on your way there. If you let me help you.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“‘Cause you remind me of someone I used to know. ‘Cause I know what it’s like to be cold and hungry and alone. ‘Cause you’re just a kid.”

Hesitantly, Elliot clasps Barnes’ hand and lets him pull him to his feet. “I swear to god, you better not be a murderer, dude.” 

Well.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” Barnes pats Elliot’s shoulder and sets off down the sidewalk. Truthfully, he’s not in a position to do much. But he can get the kid into an apartment, can dip into the Hydra blood money and pay up the rent for the next few months and leave him with some cash for groceries and other expenses. He has a burner email that he can give to him to stay in contact. Once Elliot has an address, it’ll be easier for him to get a job. Hopefully given a second chance, he’ll put the work in and land on his feet this time. And if he doesn’t, at least Barnes will have _tried_. 

All he can do is try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't be shy besties... tell me your thoughts if u feel like it. i love reading your comments more than anything! i really had fun exploring steve's relationship with jamie and revekka a little and bucky starting to come back to himself more and trying to work toward- to steal natasha's phrase- wiping out the red in his ledger. 
> 
> i'll see you next week with another chapter and i'm very excited for this one!! (it's already mostly done shhh thats a secret)


	5. You Can't Raise Hell With a Saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo..... this chapter is a whopping 13,000 words long. i hope you're ready to settle in and read for a While. chapter title from raise hell by dorothy.
> 
> before you start (and before you go further on this note, trigger warning for antisemitism and the holocaust) i want to go ahead and say that there are some touchy subjects in this chapter. because team steve has now moved to the european side of the story, scenes are now taking place in locations where WWII was very much happening. i always want to do my best to educate myself on the history of these places before i write about them and i always try to respect said history. if any of this comes across as disrespectful, please PLEASE let me know and i will edit immediately to change it. i would never purposefully write something with that intention, but mistakes do happen. 
> 
> scenes in this chapter take place in babruysk, belarus. i did not choose this location specifically for its history- actually i just picked a random country in eastern europe and then chose the city based on its proximity to a river. but when i researched the area's history, i came across so so much more than i was expecting. i consider myself something of a WWII scholar and yet i had still not heard of the tragedies that occurred across belarus and in babruysk until i started research for this chapter. i didn't include much detail of its history in this chapter because it didn't fully come up but now that i'm aware of it, i think it's an important part of the war history to learn. you can read about it [here](https://www.jewishgen.org/yizkor/bobruisk/Bysktoc1.html#TOC204) and [here](https://www.manchesteropenhive.com/downloadpdf/journals/hrv/1/1/article-p23.xml) but keep in mind these accounts cover a very graphic violent history of jewish genocide so read with caution if your mental health may be affected. these were the best sources i found from the research i did. sadly, it was difficult to find very many detailed sources of information.
> 
> another thing i wanted to touch on is the importance of staying educated on antisemitism. holocaust memorial day was this past week and sadly, a lot of people didn't know about it. it's a day of remembrance and honor for the victims and survivors of the holocaust. i am not jewish nor do i have jewish ancestors, so i don't want to speak over the voices of people who are. what i am going to do is share some of educational links and resources that come from jewish people that are very informative and helpful. please, please if you are not educated on antisemitism and the realities of how horrible our society still is towards the jewish people, take some time and learn about it. donate if you can.   
> [include fighting antisemitism in your activism carrd](https://antisemitismactivism.carrd.co/)  
> [resources and information on antisemitism carrd](https://jewishsolidarity.carrd.co/)  
> [ways to donate to the united states holocaust memorial museum](https://www.ushmm.org/support/ways-to-give/donate)  
> [donate to the auschwitz‑birkenau memorial and state museum](http://auschwitz.org/en/donate/)  
> [holocaust educational archive](https://www.survivormitzvah.org/holocaust-educational-archive/)

“Hey, asshole!” Steve reaches out and grabs a guy by the back of the collar as he runs past. He snatches the gun out of his hand before he can get a shot off. “I ain’t done with you.” The moment they’d landed in Belarus, Fury had sent them after a group of mercenaries subcontracted to supply weapons to Hydra. Steve has no complaints about this. He’s been itching for a fight. There’s only so much paperwork he can handle doing before he loses his mind. Natasha had clearly been expecting him to put up a fight against leaving the states, but the truth is, Steve was eager to go. The leash they’d had on him in the states was stifling. He doen’t want to politely go through poorly staffed Hydra bases and drop the bastards off unscathed at the nearest prison. And most of the people he could determine that had anything to do with Bucky’s unmaking were scattered across Europe. So if Bucky won’t be found then Steve will just have to make it easier for him to come out when he’s ready. 

He tosses the guy to the ground and puts a boot on his back, holding him down. “Not very nice of you to try and run off before we even got the chance to talk.” He slides the gun away in favor of pulling a knife from the sheath on his thigh and taps the flat of the blade against the palm of his hand when the guy looks over his shoulder at him. “Now, I’ll make this easy for you. See, my friends are setting charges right now and in five minutes this whole warehouse is gonna be rubble. So either you can speak and if I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you spend the rest of your life in prison somewhere. _Or_ I can break your legs and leave you here when the building blows.” He angles the tip of the knife at the guy. “Your choice.”

“Fuck you,” the guy spits.

“Who hired you?” Steve asks pleasantly. Five minutes is all the time in the world. They’ve already taken out all the guards so all he needs to worry about is getting information from their boss. “And don’t say Hydra. I already fuckin’ know that. I want _names_.” 

“If I knew I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Not good enough.” He squats, trades out his booted foot in favor of planting one knee across the guy’s back. With enough pressure, the bones start to crack under his weight. This damn warehouse is full of munitions but not a scrap of information. He’ll be damned if he leaves without getting _anything_. “No names? That’s fine.” He flicks the guy’s sweaty hair away from his forehead with the knife, smiling at the way he flinches away. “Where do you make your deliveries? You’ve _gotta_ have addresses.”

“We never saw facilities,” the guy gasps out. “They’d have us meet by the river outside the city for cargo exchange.” He pushes against the ground, trying to dislodge Steve. But Steve has at least a hundred pounds of muscle on this guy and he isn’t going fucking anywhere.For him to be all big and mighty two minutes ago about how he would never give up information, he sure didn’t hesitate to talk when a little pain and intimidation was thrown into the mix. “I can give you coordinates.”

“Yeah, you will.” Steve lets up on his ribs. “And you’ll give me the time for your next scheduled meeting.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “Three minutes. Better talk fast.”

The guy rattles off a set of coordinates. “Tomorrow, midnight. A hundred thousand American dollars for automatic rifles. They expect us to arrive in a black van. First show the weapons, then count the cash. Make the exchange and set the next drop. Is that good enough?”

“Steve, aren’t you on the third level?” Sam asks through his earpiece. “You really need to move. Like, now. We’re already at the rendezvous.”

Steve stares down at the struggling mercenary. “Thing is, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I don’t like Hydra. And I _don’t_ like anyone who enables them.”

His eyes widen. “No… no, we had a deal. I told you what you wanted to know, now you bring me out of the building before it blows.”

“No, see, I said if I was feeling generous I’d get you tossed in prison somewhere. You didn’t inspire a lot of generosity in me. Quite frankly, there ain’t never _been_ a Nazi that inspired generosity in me.” He fists his hand in the guy’s hair and yanks his head back, heedless of his yelp. “Now, don’t you start on how you ain’t _really_ Hydra, ‘cause you only agreed to give ‘em weapons, right? Well, back during the war that was the whole reason Hydra was even made in the first place. To supply weapons. See, my job was real simple. Me and my friends got sent in where no other infantries could go and when we got there, we had one mission. Killing Nazis. We got _real_ good at it, too. This ain’t the first time I’ve interrogated Hydra in a warehouse full of weapons that’s about to blow. Probably won’t be the last.”

“ _Steve!_ ” Sam snaps. “Get out of there, _now_. You can monologue later.”

“‘Fraid it’s the end of the line for you,” Steve says, and whacks the Nazi bastard solidly on the back of the head with the hilt of his knife. He gets to his feet as the guy goes limp and glances around. There’s about thirty seconds until the charges detonate and there’s probably enough C4 in this building to make the explosion even more spectacular. He doesn’t have enough time to go down to the ground level and wind his way through the maze to the exit. 

So, naturally, he throws himself out the window.

He hits the ground on his feet and takes off running. The only objective is to get as far away from the warehouse as possible before it goes up. And he can run damn fast, but even still, when the blast hits, it knocks him off his feet. His palms scrape against the gravel, skin ripping. “Fucking _damn it_ ,” he hisses and pushes himself back to his feet. “Stupid goddamn rocks.”

“So nice to know you’re alive,” Natasha says drily through the comms. “I take it the other guy isn’t?”

“Not unless he’s fuckin’ fireproof.” Steve mutters, changing directions to head for the rendezvous point. The building is in flames and there are still explosions going off from the stockpile of munitions, but the worst of it is over. His ears are ringing. “Technically, I didn’t kill him, by the way. I just knocked him out and left him there.”

Sam snorts. “I mean, I’m not an expert, but I think that counts as killing him?”

“No, he was still breathing and mostly unharmed when I left him. It doesn’t count.” He spots their silhouettes up ahead and breaks into a jog over the last fifty yard. When he reaches them, he flashes a cheery smile. “Swear.”

“I am an expert,” Natasha says, patting Steve’s shoulder. “And I don’t think it counts. Are you hurt, Steve?”

“Nah.” He flips his palms up, where the scrapes are already healing and pushing the little bits of gravel from his body. If he’d had his gloves on, it wouldn’t have even been a problem at all. “Just a few rocks. How about you? Either of you hurt?”

“Nah, man. We’re good.” Despite the dark circles under Sam’s eyes, he’s alert. Back straight and chin up. “Unlike _some people_ we got out of there well before the charges went off and had more than thirty seconds to get out of the blast radius. You are one _crazy_ son of a bitch, you know that?”

Steve shrugs. He’d rather be crazy than a lot of things. Being crazy got him the information he wanted- at least in part- and he didn’t get any serious injuries. So what if it was risky? He loves risks. Even now, his blood is pumping and his hands are trembling slightly from the adrenaline rush. Sure, there’s the anger too. Simmering low in his belly. But that’s always been there. It just gets turned up to a blaze whenever he thinks about getting his hands on the people who hurt Bucky. The guys in this building… they had no idea who the Winter Soldier was. Might not even know Bucky Barnes’ name. They were still Nazi enabling bastards and Steve will be damned if he regrets that they’re fuckin’ charred to a crisp now. But this mission was less about revenge and more about taking down Hydra’s support beams, one by one.

“You ain’t the first person to call me crazy,” he says, and clasps Sam’s shoulder as they start walking toward the SUV. Natasha falls a few paces behind them, reporting mission details over her comm to Fury or Hill. Bucky had been calling him all kinds of names long before Steve had ever been consumed by war. Colonel Phillips, Peggy, and the Howlies had all been apt to shake their heads in awe and a little fear at some of his escapades.

“And you have an _accent_.”

“What?” Steve frowns. He supposes he has relaxed a little tonight. Despite the change in century, the mission tonight felt familiar. He’d slipped back into his old skin a little, let a little of the old Brooklyn drawl come spilling out of his mouth. “Oh, yeah. They trained it outta me when I was doing the USO tour and the movies. Still shows up every now and again, though.”

“ _Trained_ it out of you?” Sam scowls. “That’s dumb.”

“Can’t have America’s new hope dragging down bond sales by talking like they picked him out of a Brooklyn sewer.” Which, they kind of had. The sentence is a verbatim echo of his past. They were just trying to help him, they said. Didn’t he want to serve his country to the best of his ability? The new accent had startled the hell out of Bucky when Steve had woken him up the morning after the liberation. He hadn’t remembered much at all from the night before, on account of all the drugs he’d been pumped with.

_Why the hell do you look like that and why the hell do you_ sound _like that?_ He’d demanded the moment he was fully awake. Steve had had to explain the whole story to him all over again. Only this time he’d gotten whacked on the back of his head and called a fucking idiot for his trouble. _Why the fuck would you sign up as a government lab rat? Did that fight before I left knock the last bit of sense right out of your damn head?_

Maybe it had.

They’ve been walking along in silence for a little while, but out of nowhere Sam grabs Steve’s sleeve. “Have you seen the movie Inglourious Basterds?”

“No,” Steve says. He knows what Sam is referring to, has had it recommended a few times. “I don’t really… watch war movies.” He already sees the war every time he goes to sleep, he doesn’t need to see it on TV too. “Why?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” Sam shakes his head. “That speech you did in there. It reminded me a little of a character in that movie. I don’t know it word for word, but there was a line that went something like ‘I didn’t come all the way from the Smoky Mountains, fight my way through Sicily, and jump out of a _fuckin’ aeroplane_ to teach the Nazis lessons in humanity. Nazi ain’t got no humanity!’ Or something like that.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Now that I’m saying it aloud, it sounds weird to compare you to a movie. I’m not trying to trivialize your experiences or anything.”

“No, it’s okay.” Steve nudges Sam with his elbow. “I know what you meant. Anyway, they were right in that line. They _ain’t_ got any humanity.” He frowns. “Aside from just… not wanting to see the war on screen when I already saw it in person. I don’t know. I think Hollywood has issues with romanticizing Nazis. I don’t want to watch a movie with even a _hint_ of a redemption arc for them.” 

Something he’s noticed about the future is that, despite the overwhelming proof that they’re still very much around and active, Nazis are kind of an abstract concept to a lot of people. They learn about the Holocaust in their history books and talk about how awful the past was while they go about their lives, willfully blind to the damage that is _still happening_. He’s been asked by civilians, reporters, and fellow soldiers alike if he’s glad that he’s in a better world now. And it is better in some ways. But antisemitism didn’t end with victory in Europe. It’s still raging on. And Steve _can’t_ look away. Because the more people that do, the more power they give them to do harm.

Sam hums, nodding. “No, I understand what you mean. It’s ridiculous. And I get why you wouldn’t want to watch the movies. Ever since Afghanistan, I get jumpy with most action films.” He detaches his wing pack as they approach the car, heading to the back to put them in the trunk. “I’ll take the backseat this time.”

“Thanks.” Steve gets into the passenger seat while Natasha takes the driver’s side. She’s actually been to this area on a mission before so she knows her way around far better than he does. The warehouse is a little ways outside of Babruysk but though there’s no one close by, he doesn’t doubt the blast will have drawn attention. Best for them to get out of the area as quickly as possible. They’re not strictly… government sanctioned right now. 

He slouches down in his seat as they get on the road, reaching for his phone in the center console. Sam is already snoring in the back but Steve is way too keyed up to sleep right now. When he hits the power button, there’s a single notification waiting for him on the screen. Three sentences in stark, bold letters that make his breath catch and his heart stutter in his chest.

**He is here. He is calm. He remembers.**

***

Barnes sits in a tree across the street from his niece’s house for a good six hours before he can convince himself to approach. The windows are all covered tightly, not even letting him get a glimpse of Revekka through them. There’s smoke curling up from the chimney though and midway through the afternoon an older middle aged woman comes outside long enough to sprinkle bird seed on the snow. His namesake, Jamie, he presumes. She looks like a Barnes. Despite the beginning appearance of wrinkles, she has the same strong facial structure as Barnes’ mother, the same straight nose as Barnes himself. He watches her smiling as the little birds come flying down to peck at the seeds, watches her until she goes back into the house. 

They have a peaceful life here. He really shouldn’t barge in and shake it up.

Unfortunately Barnes just isn’t a good person. So he climbs down from his tree and crosses the street. It would be much, much easier to slip around the back of the house and let himself in through a window without the residents any the wiser. But this is his family and he’s not going to pull any spy shit on them. Imagine how horrible he’d feel if he misjudged a room’s occupancy and let himself in the window only to scare Revekka so badly she had a heart attack and died on the spot or something. So… he’s gonna do this like a functioning fucking person. He walks right up to the front door and rings the bell. It takes a good minute, but when he hears the approaching footsteps he tenses. Christ. Now’s the moment. The door swings open. 

“Oh my god.”

Barnes blinks at Jamie and she blinks back. They stare at each other for a good thirty seconds at least before he clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “Hi. I think you’re my niece.” Correction. He _knows_ she’s his niece because when he’d decided to track down his sister, he’d done so by hacking into a database that had not only included known addresses of Revekka, but records of her descendants and the Proctor family tree. 

“You-” She finally breaks eye contact, her gaze taking the rest of him in. Slowly she reaches out and takes his metal hand in her own small, shaking one. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Bucky Barnes. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

Weirdly, his face heats up at her words. The Winter fucking Soldier does not _blush_. And yet here he is. “Not all good things, I imagine.” The words come out hoarse. There’s not enough shock in her expression or body language for her to have not known he’s alive. So, he was right. Steve has been here and he has warned them to expect him.

In fact, there’s enough pity in the downturn of her mouth when she speaks to clue him in that she probably knows exactly what he’s been through. At least to an extent. “All _brave_ things,” she says softly. “Would you like to come in?”

He’s not sure he’d classify it as brave, but he’s not going to argue the point. He steps into the foyer on silent feet when she opens the door wide for him. Methodically he removes his hat and gloves and shoves them into the pocket of his coat, which he strips off and hangs on the rack on the wall. His heart is thudding in his chest out of… fear? Maybe. It’s one thing to be greeted by his niece, whom he’s never met before. But if they _know_ what he’s done, what he’s _been_ and Revekka has revulsion or worse- fear- in her eyes when she looks at him…. His stomach is churning. He would _never_ hurt her. Not ever. Not on purpose. “How much did he tell you?” He whispers, staring at his hands.

“Enough,” she says, just as quietly. “I think he kept a lot to himself, but… enough. We know _how_ you’re here.”

“And you just… let me in. No questions asked.”

“You’ve been waiting to come home from war for a very long time, Bucky Barnes. I’m not going to leave you standing outside now that you finally reached the doorstep. You’re family.”

His hands spasm into fists at his sides as his chest aches, and aches, and aches. He has to blink away the burn from his eyes before he can look up at her.

Jamie offers him a crooked smile. “Besides, if I had told you to go away, I’m pretty sure Mom would make it her mission to make my life miserable. Steve would join her.”

“They always were a couple of troublemakers.” He reaches up to push his hair back, only to remember he’d shorn it all off when his fingers graze against the close buzz cut. “Can I… can I see her?”

“Of course. This way.” She touches his shoulder lightly and then sets off down the hall. 

The house is real nice, two stories and decorated in a way that makes it feel cosy and welcoming. On one of the walls, there’s a collage of picture frames and he slows just a little, taking in the photos. There’s Revekka and Jamie standing next to a beaming teenage boy in a graduation gown. He does a little double take at how… old she looks. Not frail, no one could ever describe Revekka Barnes as frail. But it’s shocking. Even _knowing_ how many years have passed since he last saw her, he’d half expected to walk into the room and see the same brown haired girl he’d left so long ago. Her smile is the same. Like she has a secret that’s too good to keep to herself and she’s about to beckon you forward and whisper _wanna know something?_ The rest of the photos are mostly of the boy from the graduation photo, at various ages. But here and there are others. There’s Revekka in a wedding dress, bright eyed and happy next to her groom. There’s Revekka, slightly older, with a sleeping baby in her lap. There's….

There’s Bucky and Steve and Revekka. At thirteen, eleven, and two, respectively. Bucky has one arm looped around Steve’s shoulder and he’s got Revekka propped on his opposite hip. Steve had protested being in the picture, spouted some bullshit about how he shouldn’t be part of a family photo ‘cause he wasn’t one of the Barnes siblings. Neither Bucky nor his mother accepted that and thus had insisted on him being in it. 

Barnes touches his fingers to the bottom edge of the frame and lets out a breath. Jamie has paused, watching him quietly. “Never expected I’d see this picture again.” He says, a little sheepish. “Mama always had it on-”

“-her nightstand. I remember.” Jamie finishes with a smile that turns a little sad. “Бабушка would kiss her fingertips and touch them to the frame and whisper спокойной ночи. Every night.”

He stumbles back from the picture, fingers curling into a fist. No, no, no. The years he’d spent curled up in his cell, alone and cold and wishing for his mother, she was half a world away, wishing him a calm night. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking…. Oh no. 

“Bucky. Hey, look at me.” Slowly he drags his gaze up to Jamie’s. She’s pale and guarded, but she steps closer to him and puts her hands on his shoulders, unafraid. “Deep breath, kiddo. And again.”

“I’m ten years older than your mother,” he mutters, sucking in deep gulps of air.

“Yeah, but you look a good twenty years younger than me.”

“That’s just ‘cause I took triple helpings of all the good Barnes genes.” His heart is still breaking apart in his chest, and the joke comes out a little halted and flat, but at least his breathing is evening out again. The last thing he needs right now is to get stuck inside his head. He needs to be lucid when he sees Revekka and he can’t stay long. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything.” She squeezes his shoulders lightly and steps back. “Ready to see her now?”

He takes another deep breath. “Yeah.”

Past the stairs and down another short hallway to the right, there’s a door that’s open a crack. Jamie taps her fingers against it, pushes it open just far enough to lean her head into the room. “Mom? You have a visitor.”

“Is Steve back already?”

Barnes’ heart thuds painfully in his chest. Jamie is leaving the answer to him, stepping away from the door and inclining her head. _Go on_ , she mouths. _She’s been waiting for you_. And he… he has been waiting for her. He takes one step forward. And then another. And he can hardly feel his limbs. His whole goddamn nervous system is quivering and quaking. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, stepping across the threshold. “Not Steve. Hope you… don’t mind that it’s just me instead.”

She’s sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, with a book open and forgotten in her hands. Her eyes go round as saucers and fill with tears the moment she catches sight of him. “ _Bucky?_ ” She pushes to her feet.

“Hi, Revekka,” he says, and stumbles forward. She opens her arms to meet him, half sobbing half laughing as he lifts her off her feet, the same way he did in 1943. Only this time there’s no swinging her in a circle until she giggles madly and their mother yells at them. This time, he wraps her up gently and tucks his face against her shoulder and. 

And this time he’s crying. 

Burning hot, miserable tears that won’t stop coming. He gasps and sobs and his legs give out so now they’re clinging to each other on the floor. At least he’s not the only one losing his absolute shit. Revekka is shaking and holding on to him for dear life. 

“Bucky,” she chokes out. “My big brother. My Bucky. You promised me you would come back home and here you are.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare. You _came home_.” She pulls back just far enough to clasp his face in shaking hands and press their foreheads together. “ _I’m_ sorry you had to hurt so badly to get here.”

“It wasn’t so-” He can’t finish the sentence. He _wants_ to tell her that it wasn’t so bad, that hey, he’s a scrappy guy and he can take it. But Hydra… they took and they took and they took. They took fucking goddamn _everything_ from him. They took his years and his words and his body and his mind. They took the memories right out of his head and the love and anger right out of his heart. Fuck, they even took his name. His _name_. 

His name is Bucky goddamn Barnes and he won’t let them take it from him any more.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Revekka starts, “but I’m an old woman now, not a little girl. You don’t have to pretend to be strong for my sake. I know they hurt you.” She lays her hand on his metal shoulder. “I know it was really bad.”

“It was the worst thing in the world,” he whispers, because he can’t _not_. “I wasn’t even allowed to remember there were people out there that I had loved. I came to find you as soon as I could.”

Her eyes close, a fresh wave of tears streaking down her age weathered cheeks. “I have missed you every day, Bucky. Every day. I-” she shakes her head. “I had forgotten what your voice sounds like.”

“I’m sorry I missed your wedding. You looked beautiful, Лапочка.” Bucky smooths her hair back from her face, though it’s short and thin. He uses his flesh fingers to brush at the tears still slipping down her face. “Now, don’t you cry for me. I’m out of practice wiping these away.”

“Still as witty as ever, James Buchanan.” She chokes out a wet laugh. “Better get your practice in now, ‘cause I guarantee Stevie is gonna cry all over you when he gets here. He was so upset when he told us. He was so afraid you didn’t remember-”

“Revekka, I can’t stay,” he interrupts softly. “There are a lot of people after me. It isn’t safe for you.” 

“If it ain’t safe for me, it ain’t safe for you.” Revekka juts her chin out, the same stubborn angle she’d learned from Steve. “You can’t _go_ now, Bucky. You just came home.”

“I’m not going to bring violence to your doorstep, Revekka. I won’t.” He draws her back into a hug, resting the side of his face against the top of her head. “I’ve got a lot of wrongs to make right. I promise I’ll come back as soon as I can. Don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself and I ain’t about to let them get their hands on me again.”

“You better not.” She mutters. “At least you’ll be with Steve. You’ll both take care of each other.”

“I can’t-” Bucky’s voice breaks. He swallows and it hurts. His whole chest hurts. “I’m not gonna be with Steve. I know you’re gonna talk to him about this, so. You can tell him this, too. I _can’t_ see him.” It’s not that he doesn’t want to see him. He does. _Badly_. But it won’t go well for either of them. The last time they’d seen each other… he’d very nearly fucking killed Steve. He’s done so much damage. It makes his hand shake just to think about it, makes his stomach turn and twist. God, what if he sees him and his programming just kicks back in? That can’t happen.

“Bucky, that’ll break his heart.”

Yeah. Maybe. But if that’s the cost of not running the risk of beating him to death again… Bucky will pay it.

“Can we not talk about Steve?” His voice comes out weak, barely more than a whisper. 

Revekka purses her lips, but when she sighs her expression softens. “I just can’t believe you’re really here. After all this time.”

He’s having a hard time believing it himself. It’s not exactly like he’s been dreaming of a homecoming, not when he couldn’t remember that he even had anyone to come home _to_. But even still, sitting here in the warm glow of the fireplace with his little sister… it feels like something he’s been waiting on for a very long time. “Didn’t I tell you that we were gonna live forever? Guess I was right.” It would have been nice if they’d had an easier route on their way here but… they’re alive. “Tell me about your life, Лапочка. I wanna know everything I missed.”

***

Sam is not enjoying Belarus.

It’s all of five goddamn degrees outside and they’re on their way to meet Hydra. In the dark. Sam fucking _hates_ night missions. He stares at his reflection in the window and twists his hands in his laps and definitely doesn’t say anything about how he’d rather be just about anywhere else right now. It’s not like Steve will notice his mood anyway. The poor guy has had misery practically coming off of him in waves all day. It’s just the two of them on this mission- Natasha has been sent ahead to Minsk to run a little spy game that neither he or Steve are equipped for. 

Just the two of them and their miserable, miserable longing to not be in fucking _Belarus_ right now.

Actually, Sam doesn’t know. He might like the damn country, if he got a chance to see it in the daylight. But no. His schedule has been: arrive on jet, straight to safehouse, world’s fastest debrief, gear up, blow up Nazi weapons warehouse, try to get a good night’s rest even though his body clock is now all fucked up, wake up, longer debrief, plan tonight’s mission, say goodbye to Natasha, gear up. Another fucking night mission. And he has to deal with the fact that Steve is absolutely unhinged and takes _stupid_ risks that make Sam’s blood pressure skyrocket. From the moment he’d joined this team, every single mission, Steve has been flirting with death. Last night had only been one example. Staying in the building until the last possible second before the explosions started going off. 

Sam just doesn’t know if he can handle losing another friend. 

He glances over at Steve and sighs. By all appearances, Steve didn’t get any sleep at all. His eyes have been red rimmed and bloodshot all day and there’s tension in every line of his body. It had been Nat who’d gotten it out of him, over breakfast. While their jet had been landing in Belarus, Bucky Barnes had been visiting his sister. And as best as they could tell, his memory was wholly intact. 

“He remembers me,” Steve had whispered, staring into his bowl of porridge. “And he told them to tell me that he doesn’t want to see me.”

Sam is a horrible person. Because, in spite of knowing what the guy has been going through for the past seventy years, he kind of hates Bucky Barnes right now. Sure, there’s no doubt more to his reasoning for not seeing Steve than simply _not wanting to_. But that doesn’t fucking matter, now does it? Not when Sam is the one going on this mission- which they only have minimal intel on, by the way- with Steve. Not when he’s gotta be the one to pick up the pieces and get them both out of there alive. Steve has been winding himself up tight all day long and it’s clear from the set of his jaw and how he’s white knuckling the steering wheel that the moment they’re on what he perceives as a battlefield, he’s going to fucking lose it and all that pent up emotion is gonna come flooding out. Will the mission go south? Undoubtedly.

But what does it fucking matter, you know? Sam’s the one who chose to sign up for this. It’s not his job to enjoy the mission. It’s his job to complete it.

They ride in absolute silence the entire way to the meeting point on the Berezina river. Because Steve has no respect for anything as menial as a speed limit, they get there with _plenty_ of time to spare. Sam undoes his seatbelt and takes a deep breath. “Look, Steve. I know you’re dealing with a lot of shit right now, but. I need you to keep your head. Do not flip out and kill these guys, alright?” He holds his hand up when Steve opens his mouth. “I know. I _know_. Death to all Nazis. Yeah, they have it coming to them. But we have a mission plan and we need to stick to it.”

“I’m not planning on killing them.” Steve says folding his arms over his chest. “But I think we should… make some amendments to the plan.”

“What.”

He leans slightly towards Sam. “Fury and Maria want us to bring them in for questioning, right? But there’s no guarantee we’ll get anything out of them. The people they send to make these kinds of exchanges, they’re the lowest bastards in the food chain. That way if they get caught, they can’t spill the secrets. We bring them in, at _best_ we get the location of their base and the names of other people of equally low standing. And when they don’t return, whoever their bosses are will know it’s gone to shit and they’ll pack up everything of any strategic value and get the hell out of there.”

Sam has the worst feeling that whatever comes out of Steve’s mouth next is gonna be the final straw for him to start sprouting grey hairs.

“So, I was thinking it through on the drive over. We take them hostage, but instead of taking them back to be interrogated, we make them take us to their headquarters. Knock ‘em out, sneak in, see what we can find. That’s all. I’m not trying to take down the whole base on our own. But if we give them time to figure out someone is onto them, we won’t get anything valuable. At the very least, we get into their records room and I can plug in one of Stark’s drives and we get all of their files. It’s more than we’ll get if they know we’re coming.”

Yep. Grey hairs. He can feel them emerging from his scalp right now. When he’d been thinking that the mission was gonna go south, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. “ _That_ is a _terrible_ idea. We’re only _two_ people, Steve. You wanna take on a whole Hydra base? There’s no way that would ever work.”

Steve smiles. “Sure about that? Because I did it by myself on my very first mission with no intel, no training, no armor, and a tin shield. And I promise that base was far larger and more dangerous than this one can possibly be. It’ll work, Sam.”

“We don’t even know where their base _is_. It could be halfway across the country for all we know. They might have been driving three days to get here.” He’s throwing out every possible rebuttal he can come up with but even still, they come out weak. Steve has a point about his first mission. And he’d had a point about the outcome of just following their original plan. It’s still a horrible, _suicidal_ idea and Sam should say no. Absolutely not. 

“It’ll be nearby.”

“How do you know?”

Steve looks, abruptly, every one of his years. “This entire region was under Nazi occpation from ‘41 until ‘44. Babruysk was turned into one of their large military bases. Tens of thousands of innocent people were murdered here. My team never made it this far east. The Red Army liberated them while we were still chasing Johann Schmidt. But Hydra would have had plenty of time to set up shop here during the war. We know they made a merger with the Soviets at some point.” His grimace looks painful, like he’s on the verge of puking his guts up. “They know how to stay under the radar.”

Maybe it’s being back in Europe, back where he’d been fighting and being here to fight Hydra _again_ , but Steve has been opening up more about the war over the past couple of days. At first, it had been easy to forget, sometimes, that it wasn’t something that Steve learned about in history class like everyone else Sam knows but a reality he lived. He’d kept it all locked in so tight, was so good at diverting a conversation. Now though, he’s coming out of his shell. Now he’s sharing feelings and details that Sam has never heard of because it simply isn’t _taught_. “I didn’t know any of that.” Admittedly, he probably hasn’t done enough study on it. Especially now.

“It’s not all that surprising to me, that we were brought out here.” Steve shakes his head. “I haven’t had time to look through Fury’s intel but I imagine there are a lot of active bases scattered around eastern Europe. He wouldn’t have brought us _here_ just for a weapons subcontractor. Hydra will be nearby.” He sighs. “I just can’t help thinking that if I’d never crashed that damn plane….”

“Okay, you can’t do that to yourself.” Sam shakes his head. “Yeah, you could have made a difference if you had landed the plane instead of crashed it. But you’re making a difference now too. And you can’t change the past. There’s no point in focusing on what might have beens. Focus on right now Why didn’t you bring up this mission idea to Fury?”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?” Steve throws out, forcing a tight smile. “Fury doesn’t much like how I run missions already. But he isn’t our superior officer. Technically, we _aren’t_ disobeying orders. I don’t know what his affiliation with Stark Industries is, but we’re here under Avengers jurisdiction. Which means I’m the commanding officer and I can make changes to the mission as I see fit. It’s easier to tell them later. Like you said, there’s only two of us. They would have never gone for it.”

For a good reason. Sam isn’t exactly one to balk at taking risks; if he had been, he never would have volunteered to help Steve and Natasha that day without thinking twice about it. He’d even classify himself as an adrenaline chaser. But he isn’t stupid enough to think this is a solid plan. Unfortunately, Steve has a way about him that inspires loyalty. Because _he_ thinks his plan will work, Sam’s dumbass adrenaline eating brain is all too willing to also believe that it will work in spite of his common sense telling him _no_. He groans and leans his head back against the headrest. “We’re gonna get fucking killed.”

“Sam. I _promise_ I won’t let that happen.” Steve reaches over and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. He probably doesn’t even realize the pressure he uses but it makes Sam wince in the dark nonetheless. “You don’t have to come with me, you know. I know you’ve given up a lot to be here already. I can do this by myself if you want to sit this one out.”

“Fuck that, Rogers,” he rolls his eyes. It might just be down to his less than perky mood tonight but he’s about damn tired of the wide eyed earnest ‘ _you don’t have to do this’_ attitude. At this point, yeah, he fucking _does_ have to do this. When they’d been operating as vigilantes, sure he could have dropped out at any time. But he’d signed a contract with the Avengers Initiative when Maria Hill had intervened. “You gotta stop it with the self sacrificing shit. I don’t need you constantly asking me if I want out. For one thing, it feels guilt trippy as fuck, even though I know you don’t mean it that way. This is my _job_ , not our morning runs. Sitting it out isn’t an option. And besides, I’ll take my chances with Hydra but I’m not risking Natasha’s wrath if I let you go _alone_. Got it?”

Steve’s eyes are a little wide. He nods jerkily. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.”

“So, we’re doing this then?”

“Fuck my life,” he mutters under his breath. “Yeah. We’re fucking doing this.” They might get killed but that could happen on any mission. It’s not like any of them are exactly a walk in the park. They’d handled all the other missions with just three of them. Two is only one less than that. And yeah, Natasha is a hell of a fighter to have on the team, but they’re _supposedly_ not going into the base to fight tonight. Which gives him slightly less confidence in their chances of succeeding than he would have if they _were_ trying to blow the place. They’re not exactly spy material.

In the dark, Steve flashes a shark-like smile. “Look sharp then, Sam. Contact should be any minute now.”

They’d gotten a look at the area through satellite feeds, had looked at the images from the last exchange and matched their vehicle to the one the weapons contractors brought to these meetings. Of course, the back of their van isn’t full of machine guns, but Hydra isn’t gonna get the chance to figure that out. Sam pulls his thermal balaclava up over his mouth and nose and runs a quick weapons check. He’s not flying tonight, at least. “You better run your plan past me again because if the satellite images were right, we’re gonna be outnumbered two to one and I don’t wanna go in blind.”

Steve doesn’t look up from checking his own pistols. “Let me do the talking. My spoken Russian is better. We figure out which guy is the leader. You restrain him while I knock out the others. Easy peasy.” He pulls his own mask up as headlights and the crunch of gravel signal their contact’s approach. “You ready?”

“Yeah, yeah. Showtime, Rogers.” If he wants to do the talking, that’s fine by Sam. Means until Steve gives the signal, all he has to do is stand around, gun in hand while glaring at everyone. Not hard to accomplish at all. The cold hits him as soon as he steps out of the vehicle. He clenches his jaw and straightens his back as the armored truck slows to a stop in front of them. 

They leave the engine running and the lights on as the doors open and four burly guys climb out, all heavily armed. They’re in plain black tac gear, not dissimilar to what Sam and Steve are wearing. Two of them fall to the back- not in charge then, probably here to do heavy lifting. The other two regard Sam and Steve with suspicion, staying back a few paces and muttering to each other too low for Sam to pick up. After a couple of tense minutes, one of them snaps something at them in rapid Russian. It takes Sam a few seconds to decipher it as ‘ _Who are you? Where is Mikhail?_ ’ It’s been a long time since his college course in the language, alright? Though his skills are now rapidly improving since he joined up with Steve and Natasha and started working this mission where half their intel has been in the language.

He doesn’t catch Steve’s full answer either but can sum it up to something along the lines of ‘ _He was injured in the blast and sent us instead.’_ The explosion had been all over the news that morning but the police were reporting it as an unfortunate accident because of all the explosives housed in the building but no evidence of foul play. They’re banking on the fact that since the weapons suppliers didn’t know where Hydra was located, then Hydra didn’t know where they were either. They have no reports of more than one weapons warehouse but _Hydra_ doesn’t know that. Steve’s voice is perfectly even and confident when he asks them if they’d like to inspect the cargo. 

He knows his target as soon as the guy on the left turns to look at the other one in response to Steve’s question. When the guy in charge finally nods sharply, Steve turns on his heel and meets Sam’s gaze as he walks past, toward the back of the van.

Sam waits for the guys to pass before he falls into step behind them. When they’re all in Steve’s range, he slips up behind the boss and presses the muzzle of his pistol against the back of his head and wraps his forearm around his throat. “Reach for your gun and I’ll blow your Nazi brain out right here.” 

There isn’t anyone else on earth he’d rather be paired with on this mission, actually, because by the time he finishes getting his sentence out, Steve has already dropped all three of the other guys. They’re alive but they’re gonna have concussions from hell when they wake up. Steve shakes out his hands and pulls down his mask as he strides up to the two of them. “Know who I am?”

“Captain America,” the Hydra agent grits out. His hands are up, well away from his guns. Smart. “Пошёл на хуй,” he spits. Not so smart. 

Steve’s eyes narrow, glinting dangerously in the dark. “Yeah, fuck you too.” He strips the guy of his weapons methodically while Sam holds the gun on him. When Steve is satisfied that he’s unarmed, he opens the back of their van and grabs the cuffs they’d brought with them. “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he says as he cuffs him. “We’re gonna dump you and your friends back in your truck and you’re gonna point us to your base. If you don’t,” he steps very close, towering over the stocky agent, “I will _kill_ you and I’ll wait for one of your friends to wake up and have them take us. So I suggest you cooperate, because I am _not_ having a good day and I would just love to take it out on you. Understand?”

“Да.”

“Good.” He turns away and cuffs the other three men, strips their weapons, and then dumps their bodies in the back of the Hydra truck. The weapons, he loads into the back of their own van. They’re already geared up and have no use for the extra guns right now. “Let’s get moving.” 

Steve takes the driver’s seat, with the Hydra agent in the center seat and Sam in the passenger. He keeps his gun trained on the guy, not dumb enough to think cuffs alone would make him behave. So the easiest part of the mission is done. Now they just… need to infiltrate a Hydra facility and collect intel and not get killed. Well. It can’t be any worse than Insight Day. 

It’s unsurprising that their base turns out to be behind the front of a machinery plant. As far as covers go, it’s a good one. No one would question if it draws a lot of power, no one would register the trucks going in and out. It’s protected by a tall fence and there’s a guard booth at the only entrance. Steve parks the truck down the block, well out of sight of the cameras and turns to their captive. “What’s the best way to get inside undetected? And _don’t_ lie to me because I promise I’ll live through whatever trap you try to lead us into and then I’ll come back and take it out on you.”

Hydra guy grimaces. His brief display of anger earlier seems to have settled into resignation now. “The fuckers aren’t paying me enough to keep my mouth shut.” He launches into a description of an unsupervised area at the backside of the property where they can cut the fence and slip inside. From there it’s easy enough to get into the building via the various doors, which he gives them the passcode to. “The real base is in the basement. There’s a cargo elevator at the end of the east wing that will take you down. Code is 550328. You’ll run into others as soon as you’re down there but as long as they don’t see your face, they’re unlikely to recognize you. We’ve had a lot of newbies coming in from all over in the last month. That’s all I know. I’ve only been here a few months myself.” It’s all falling into place too easily right now and that puts Sam on edge. It _won’t_ stay this easy. 

“Great.” Steve says, and knocks the guy out. He leans forward to look at Sam past the slumped over body, smiling grimly. “You ready?”

***

Steve is in his element. No two bases have ever been exactly the same, of course, but even almost a century down the line with wildly improved technology, Hydra has the same feel to it. Mostly, for Steve, that feeling is a deep mixture of disgust, disdain, and good old anger. And tonight, all of those are dialed up to ten. Oh, he knows this idea is ridiculous and far too risky and he hasn’t missed the looks Sam has been shooting him all night, like he thinks Steve has finally lost it and gone fully off the deep end. But Steve does his best work when he’s overflowing with emotion. His reckless streak is what makes missions like this _work_. It’s to the chagrin of everyone around him, sure, but he gets _results_. 

He and Sam have slipped into the building and have made it down into the basement. The guy had been right when he’d said no one would pay attention to them. Even with their face masks up. Then again, it’s fucking cold down here. Half the agents have on thermal face wear of some sort. There had been a group of guys huddled in the hallway right outside the elevator when they’d stepped out and they’d barely even glanced at them. Another thing about Hydra that hasn’t changed. They still hire some real dumbasses for their security teams. So they’re striding down the hallways acting for all the world like they own the place and no one is even questioning it. Without the suits and the shield and the wings, they’re just another couple of guys in heavy, unmarked gear. Steve snags the arm of a guy that looks flustered doing inventory on a crate of what appears to be blue light energy cartridges. His stomach tightens the moment he glances at them. The _last_ thing they need is those damn vaporizing weapons brought back into the equation. 

He clenches his jaw and suppresses the urge to punch his way through the entire building. That’s a guaranteed way to bring down the cavalry on them. And if they have those energy weapons, it’s _imperative_ that they stay under the radar. He doesn’t even have his shield to deflect shots. So instead, he keeps his eyes low and half mumbles a request for directions to the records room. They’re new, he explains, he’ll do better at remembering the layout soon. The guy, clearly annoyed and busy, snaps out directions and waves them off.

The ‘basement’ goes down far deeper than just one level. The first floor, from the doors he glances in is all storage rooms full of weapons or various machinery parts. The second level, which they get to via a rickety metal staircase is better lit. To the right, there’s a set of heavy steel double doors, stamped with _laboratory_. That’s not at all concerning, seeing Hydra’s known love of human experimentation. But with the guards standing by the doors, there’s no way to get inside without raising a ruckus. Instead, Steve turns his attention to the left and sets off towards the records room with Sam hot on his heels. They have to turn two corners and pass rows of offices before they get to it, but at least the doors are all closed and they don’t attract any attention. 

“Christ,” Sam mutters under his breath as they slip into the records room. He leans his head against the closed door and lets out a heavy breath. “You seem calm for a guy in his enemies _literal_ basement.”

“I’ve done this before a time or twelve,” Steve shrugs and fishes out one of the Stark drives to plug into the computer bank. One thing he has to hand to Tony is that his tech never fails. They’d been given a supply of these drives and he doesn’t fully understand how it works, but somehow it gets Jarvis into the system of whatever computer it's plugged into. From there, the AI disables their security protocols and copies all of their files, easy peasy. He slips it into the port and steps back, turning on his heel to survey the rest of the room. There are shelves and shelves of paper files, arranged seemingly by date, with the most recent closest to the computer bank. The shelving stretches back far into the room, past even where the motion sensor lights have kicked on. “I wonder how far back these files date,” he murmurs.

“It’s not like we’re equipped to take them,” Sam points out. And he’s right. They could maybe find bags to stuff some files in, but they definitely won’t be able to cart very many of these out of here.

That’s alright. Whatever they get off of the computer will do. With that evidence to bring back with them, they’ll be able to send in a fireteam to clear the base later and clear out the paper files and weapons. Still… he doesn’t have anything better to do than take a look while they wait for the digital ones to download. “I know. I’m just gonna… look. Can you let me know when that’s done?” If he finds anything he wants to look at immediately, it’ll be easy enough to slip into one of his pockets. And he isn’t fooling himself, as he walks further and further back, not even glancing at the boxes labelled in the past two decades. He knows exactly what he’s looking for.

There’s no lead that this base might have anything on Bucky. But he still has to check. 

At the _very_ back of the room, the earliest file boxes are yellowed with age and labelled in faded ink. They start in 1943. He grits his teeth. So this base is very, _very_ old. It’s nothing more than he’d expected, but it’s still sickening. He doesn’t bother those boxes, backtracks slightly until he reaches 1945 and starts paying close attention to the labels. A lot of them are things like inventories by month or employee records. That’s not what he’s fucking looking for. 

He finds it in the form of a small box on the top shelf, flimsy in his hands when he lifts it, labelled simply _The American._ Slowly, he sinks to the ground and lifts the lid from the top. The contents are water damaged, so brittle that an edge of one of the papers crumbles away when he tries to pick it up. He gets it on the second try, gently lifting it from the box and into the light. It’s a doctor’s report. About _Bucky_. 

_The patient, American Male, aged 28, was found by a patrol in the Alps. He was transported here, under orders of Arnim Zola. Much of the patient’s left arm was roughly amputated by his fall- some 2500 meters onto rock and ice. Infection had already begun to set in by the time of his arrival. I have removed the infected flesh and ragged bone and stitched up his stump. He remains asleep, but it is becoming apparent that he has an enhanced healing factor, as his injuries are fading at a preternaturally rapid rate._

Steve sets the paper carefully in the lid of the box before he presses a shaky hand over his mouth. He’d been hoping for maybe a mention of the Winter Soldier program at most. But this is so much more than that. Bucky was _kept here_. Immediately after his fall, they had him here. Before he was ever the Soldier. Or, at least, he was kept in this city. The facility might have moved buildings and taken their records. There are a couple more reports from the doctor, documenting vitals or progression of wound sites. And then-

_The prisoner demonstrated a colorful competency in the Russian language and killed two guards upon gaining awareness of his surroundings. Due to the sensitive nature of discussions that take place in this facility, it has been recommended that the prisoner be removed to the lowest cell block, where he cannot overhear anything. The transfer will take place immediately. Doctor Zola requires the prisoner alive upon his return to our facility so he will be kept in the cell indefinitely until he is required by the Doctor._

At the very bottom, nestled into the corner of the box, a pair of dog tags with the name James B Barnes stamped into the metal. Steve lifts the chain up with shaking fingers and fights miserably against the hot tears that slip down his face. On one of the tags, there’s a long dried, rust red splatter of blood. 

There’s nothing else in the box. 

He carefully slips the tags over his head, undoes his uniform top just far enough to let them settle on his chest next to his own pair, and puts everything else back before he stands. The papers are too damaged to get out of here in his pocket, they’ll have to be left behind. But even though Bucky might not want to see Steve right now, that doesn’t mean they won’t see each other in the future. And _when_ they do, he wants to be able to hand Bucky his tags. It doesn’t make up for leaving him to be tortured for seventy years but…. Well. He doesn’t really know. Maybe Bucky won’t even want them back. But in that case, Steve will wear them until the day he dies. 

When he makes his way back to the front of the room, Sam is leaning against the computer bank, twirling the data drive between his fingers. He looks up as Steve approaches. “It finished downloading a few minutes ago but… you seemed to be having a moment and we’re relatively safe in here, so I just…” he shrugs. “What did you find?”

“They had Bucky here.” He says, and his ears are ringing. “Before he was brainwashed. He was just… a prisoner.” 

How long had it been?

“Steve-”

“Do you think I can pull up a floor map on this,” he tilts his head toward the computer bank. It’s a horrible idea, really. They have what they came for. They should get out now. He definitely shouldn’t go looking for the _lowest cell block_.

“Probably.” Sam’s brows furrow. “Why?”

If he admits to the real, morbid reason, he’ll probably get told something like _seeing it won’t change anything, Steve_. He knows that. But he needs to see it anyway. The answer he settles on is, “He might not have been the only prisoner they’ve kept here. It’s a big, active base with a laboratory. I wanna see if we can find the cells, that way we know if they’ve got captives when we report to Fury.”

Sam stares at him impassively for a _very_ long minute. He’s got this expression he pulls out sometimes, when he’s looking at Steve, like he can see right through him to the darkest parts without even trying. And normally, Steve _likes_ that. Because it’s really fucking hard to find anyone who looks at him and sees anything more than Captain America. But moments like this, he wants to squirm and look away in shame. “You want to see where he was kept.” 

“I-” There’s no point in lying about it now. “I need to, Sam.”

“It might not even be the same facility. He might never have been here. Or if he was, they may have completely remodeled.”

“I know.”

“It won’t _change_ anything.”

“I know that, too.” But he still has to see it, if it's here. “Please. Just this, and then we’ll leave.” He knows he’s already asked too much, that he’s already changed their whole mission plan with no warning and asked Sam to follow him into an enemy base with no backup. And he’d said they were just getting intel and then they’d leave. But now… Steve can’t leave until he knows. He just can’t. 

“If we make it through this, we are having a _talk_ tomorrow.” Sam sighs. “They have shit security anyway.”

That’s the thing with Hydra. They get cocky. They think there’s no way they’ll possibly be discovered or that someone will give away their information so easily. They haven’t looked twice at Sam and Steve because they don’t expect anyone who isn’t part of the organization to know the codes to get inside. It’s fucking stupid, because they’re apparently bringing in a lot of new people. Any one of them could be a spy. Especially after the fiasco in America. It doesn’t make sense at all, even considering how dumb as they can be sometimes. But he’s not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

He leans his hands on the console, watching the computer screen as Sam starts typing. It doesn’t take him long to have a map pulled up. “The report said he was in the lowest cell block.” He dismisses the first level and squints at the layout of the floor they’re on. At the laboratory end of the floor, there’s a marked area for a _Containment Room_. That’ll probably be newer cells. Maybe like they saw in Connecticut.

“Well, the staircase for the next level down is here,” Sam says, pointing at a little icon on the screen not too far from their own location. He swipes his finger across the map, pulling up the level below them. It’s marked with barracks and a training gym and another staircase marker.

It isn’t until the fourth floor that they hit gold. _Cell Blocks (former)_. Steve sucks in a breath and straightens up. “That’s it.” 

“Are you _sure_ you want to see it?” Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. “This isn’t like the bank. He didn’t point you here. It might not be something he would even want you to see.”

“I have to.”

“Okay.” He pockets the drive and clears his search from the computer. “Then let’s get this over with and then get the hell out of this Nazi death trap.”

There’s still no one in the hallway when they slip out of the records room. It is after midnight, after all, so it makes sense that the offices would be empty. When they get to the barracks and training floor, there are a few people sparring on the mats but they’re absorbed in what they’re doing and don’t pay attention as Steve and Sam walk past, toward the staircase. There’s no overhead light in the cell blocks, so Steve pulls a flashlight from his belt and shines it around. They’re typical Hydra cells,built in a similar fashion to every other prison he’d seen during the war. Tiny square rooms meant to house at least two, behind rusty iron bars. It’s clear they haven’t been used in a while, that this entire quadrant has been relegated to overflow storage. Most of the cells are crammed with dusty old boxes and ancient munitions. Clearly Hydra isn’t dealing in common prisoners anymore. They walk in silence down the long hallway and at the very end, there’s another metal staircase leading down. “We’ve gotta go lower.” 

On the next block, he flashes his light at the end of the hallway, but it’s a dead end. So this is it. The cells are the same here as they were above. He looks into each of them, sees the layers of dust that speak of long years of disuse. There’s nothing in any of them that indicate that Bucky might have been there. There are no personal touches in any of them at all. If there had been, it’s all long been erased. He clenches his fists around one of the cell bars and leans his forehead against it, letting out a heavy breath. It’s not like he was _expecting_ personal touches, like it was an apartment Bucky was hanging curtains in the windows of and not a fucking _cell_ he was locked in. But… he doesn’t really know what he was expecting, honestly. He stares into the cell he’d stopped in front of. So, while he had been sleeping, this is where they’d had Bucky. 

“Steve. I think you should see this.”

Steve turns, looking across to where Sam is squatting at the end of the hallway, flashing his light in Steve’s direction. He’d done his own looking around while Steve was examining each cell. “What is it?”

“I think I found it.” 

It isn’t until he walks down the hall that he actually sees what Sam is looking at. He’s pushed aside a couple of old rotted crates and revealed a trap door. The dark opening has a set of stone stairs disappearing downward. Steve’s stomach turns. “Oh my god.”

“I didn’t…” Sam’s voice is very faint as he looks up at Steve, eyes wide. “I only went down a few steps. There’s a cell down there. It’s not like the rest of these.”

Steve bites his lip until he tastes blood as he pulls down his mask. But he holds his head high and descends into the dark. The steep stairs lead into a very small room that reeks of damp rot and piss. There’s a walk space maybe three feet wide and then immediately on his right is a wall of rusty iron bars. The door is ajar and the hinges shriek when he pushes it open far enough to step into the tiny cell. It’s roughly ten feet long and five feet wide. Turned over against the floor is an old wooden pail, maybe used for a toilet. Against the back wall, there’s a long rotted cot. But as Steve shines his flashlight around the prison, neither of it’s sad fixtures are what grabs his attention. 

It’s the walls. They’ve been written all over with markers, defaced entirely with stupid shit like ‘ _Douglas was here_ ’, random curse words in a variety of languages, and crudely drawn dicks. But beneath all of that. Every inch of stone, carved with words. He barely registers how loud and ragged his breathing is getting as he steps forward. He traces the uneven lettering with his fingers as he starts reading with the writing on the wall right above the cot and works his way around the tiny room.

**My name is Bucky Barnes.**

**I was born March 10th, 1917.**

**My mother’s name is Klavdiya. My sister’s name is Revekka.**

**Steve Rogers is my best friend.**

**I do not know how long I have been here.**

**It’s been a very long time.**

**I fell off of a train. No normal person would have survived that fall. But I did.**

**I miss my mother.**

**If I die here, I want someone to find this and know I lived.**

**I miss the sky. I miss the sun. I miss talking to people who would listen.**

**I will not break down here.**

**Steve died in a plane crash two years ago. They showed me a newspaper. That bastard, I told him he wasn’t allowed to die without me. It’s not his fault. He didn’t know.**

“Steve, hey,” Sam says from behind him. “Hey, come on. You can’t lose it yet.”

He hadn’t even noticed how he’d hit his knees on the dusty stone floor. His body is shaking, convulsing almost with choked down noises of horror, with sobs. It doesn’t end there. Every part of all three walls has been carved into by Bucky. He wouldn’t have been allowed a knife, but he could have done it with the edge of a stone, maybe. It must have taken him years. There are stories from their childhood, names of people they’d known in the war, words to lullabies his mother had sang when they were children. On the far left wall, in jagged words much larger than the rest:

**God, if you’re up there and you’re listening, please get me out.**

Bucky hadn’t believed in God. 

He’d been so desperate and _alone_ down here that he’d turned to begging a god he hadn’t ever even believed in for a way out. His pain is _literally_ sunk into the walls, a cry for help that went ignored. And they’d… they’d _desecrated_ this place. Written over his words like this was a bathroom stall to vandalize. And frankly, from how sharp the stench of piss is down here, they’ve been using it as an actual bathroom, too. It’s not that he thinks it should have been preserved like a fucked up museum to visit. But it shouldn’t have been treated like this. 

“Look what they did,” he whispers. “He left so many- and they just-” His words won’t come out in full sentences. How does one have such a complete lack of human empathy? He closes his eyes against the welling tears, tilts his head down until his chin is damn near on his chest. It feels wrong just being in here, like this wasn’t something he was ever meant to find. And probably, it wasn’t. He’ll have to face that eventually, if he and Bucky are ever in a place to _talk_ about any of this. If he ever sees him again.

God, how could he ever ask him to talk about this?

It’s painful for Steve just being here. His gut feels like someone just pulled back and gave him the sucker punch of a lifetime. Breathless with the shock of it. Somehow, it’s worse than knowing about everything else that had happened. At least he could rationalize that Bucky was in cryofreeze for most of that time, that he wasn’t being _continuously_ tortured. There’s no freezer tank down here. Just a solitary confinement cell with no light and no fresh air. And Bucky had to have been down here for _years_. The notes by the doctor had made it clear they’d had him immediately following his fall. And Bucky’s carving on the wall about Steve’s death having been two years past. He’d been here that long. He’d been here probably as long as it took Zola to worm his way out of prison and into SHIELD’s trust. A long fucking time. 

He doesn’t open his eyes, even as he hears the rustle of Sam’s pants as he slowly lowers himself to the hard ground next to Steve. “They’re evil,” Sam says softly. “They’re monsters and we are not going to stop until every single one of them is dead or behind bars.” He wraps his arms loosely around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “But we can’t do anything about _this_ tonight. We’ll bring the evidence back to Fury and get permission to come back with a fireteam and then we’ll send every bastard in this building straight to hell.”

“They’ll wish they were in hell before I’m done with them,” Steve mutters. He pulls away from the hug and swipes his hand over his face as he gets to his feet. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” The longer they’re in here, the more it sinks in. Every time he thinks what happened to Bucky couldn’t possibly get any worse, it does. And it doesn’t matter how many Hydra bastards meet their end at Steve’s hands, it will _never_ change what’s already happened. 

“Your best idea yet.” Sam stands, dusting off his pants. 

They’re turning to leave when Steve freezes. There are footsteps coming toward them rapidly. Two pairs, heavy boots. He shoots a look at Sam. “Someone’s coming.” He should have been paying more attention. He should have heard them long before they were this close. The fact of the matter is, he’s compromised and he knows it. They need to wrap this up as quickly and quietly as possible because they aren’t equipped to fight off a whole base of Hydra tonight. 

Sam sighs. “I fucking knew this was all going too smoothly to be true.”

“Yeah.” Steve doesn’t bother to flick off his flashlight. There’s nowhere to hide down here anyway. Whatever is about to happen is happening whether it’s in the dark or not. 

The footsteps clatter down the steps, revealing the guys they’d passed sparring earlier. They’re still in workout clothing, sweaty and disgusting. “Newbies!” One of them shouts when he catches sight of them. “Come for a little pissing contest? Can we join?”

That… is the worst possible thing he could have said. Steve stiffens. He very carefully does not curl his hands into fists as he steps aside, inclining his head in invitation. Sam is staring at him, but the flare of anger in his gaze isn’t directed at Steve. He tilts his chin in acknowledgement. Steve spins on his heel as soon as the two Hydra agents are past him. He grabs the one who had suggested the pissing contest, and slams his head into a cell bar hard enough that the iron warps outward at the impact. Bone shard and blood splatters and Steve turns back to the second guy only to find his body on the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead. The silenced shot had been completely covered by the ringing metal.

Sam slips his gun back into its holster. “I hate these freaks so much. Let’s go before any more of them come around.” 

“Yeah.” Steve closes the cell door behind them as they leave and follows Sam up the stairs. They close the trapdoor and push the crate back over the top of it. He looks at Sam over the top of the crate. “Think we can make it back up four more levels without being recognized.”

“Maybe if you pull up your mask.” Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to jinx it so I’m not saying anything more than that. You good?”

Not really. Right now his adrenaline is running high enough that it builds a bridge right over the gaping dark hole that had opened in his chest when he’d seen the cell. And that’s enough to carry him through until they get out of here. But he won’t be. Not tonight when he lays down to sleep and those fucking walls show up behind his eyelids and he thinks of everything that he could have prevented. Hands shaking and cold in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature, he jerks his mask up over his mouth and nose. “I’m functioning.” 

They retrace their steps through the cell blocks, through the training floor- now empty- and back up to the second level without encountering anyone. It’s only when they’re heading down the hall of offices that one of the doors opens and a middle aged man in a white coat steps out and frowns when he sees them. “Soldiers. Headed to swap out the perimeter guards?”

“...Yes.” Steve’s heart thumps hard in his chest. Just get through this. They _just_ need to get through this. The guy is staring at them too intensely, gaze flicking back and forth between them. Calculating. 

“You,” he says, turning to Sam. “You weren’t with Strucker’s latest group, were you? I don’t remember seeing you come in with them. American?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam’s voice is steady.

The man’s expression clears and he nods. “Ah, yes. Very different here than in DC, no? We run a much tighter ship here. That disaster with Captain America and Black Widow would never have happened if we had been running it rather than that idiot Pierce. Hydra’s good work is meant to happen in the shadows, not in the skies. You will learn that with us.” He glances down at the tablet he’s holding and then back up at them. “Very well. On your way then. And when you get there, tell Navitski I want to see him.”

Steve nods sharply, letting out a breath as they get waved on. So much for their _tight ship_. He could almost laugh. Whatever they’re doing, it clearly isn’t tight enough, because now they’re home free. They easily make it past the rest of the people milling in the hallways and up the service elevator. From there, all they have to do is leave the property the way they came in. 

“Holy shit,” Sam mutters, when they’re maybe a hundred yards away from the base. He lets out a huge breath and shakes his head, laughing a little. “You absolutely crazy bastard, I can’t believe that shit worked.”

“Me either,” Steve finally admits. “For a moment there I thought we were done for.”

“You mean you weren’t _sure?_ And you did it anyway?”

He smiles, a little sheepishly, as he tugs down his mask. The frigid air turns every breath he lets out into frosty little clouds of vapor as they walk. “I was ninety percent sure it would work, especially after what our hostage told us about the building. But I was prepared to fight our way out, too. I sure wouldn’t have minded getting my hands around the neck of every asshole in that building.”

“Yeah, me either,” Sam mutters. “You know I normally go more for the least amount of casualties method but… fuck. That cell pissed me the fuck off, man.” He meets Steve’s gaze. “You gonna be okay?”

Steve laughs, a little hysterically. The further they walk away from the base, the more it’s sinking in. His hands tremble even when he curls them into fists. “What does it matter if _I’m_ okay? I’m not the one who was imprisoned there.”

“No, but it still hurts to know our loved ones are in pain.” Sam puts one hand on Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t even know him and I feel sick thinking about it. No decent human being wouldn’t. It really goes to show exactly what kind of sadistic freaks Hydra attracts.”

“Nazi ain’t got no humanity.” It’s an echo of that war movie Sam had brought up the night before. But it really is just the truth. No humanity. No soul. No kindness. And no fuckin’ heart. Steve doesn’t kid himself into thinking he’s the kindest or most empathetic person on the planet. Not when the truth is that he has no issues with killing people. It doesn’t keep him up at night. Their faces don’t haunt his dreams nor does he hear echoes of their screams in his ears. It’s not that he takes pleasure in the killing act itself, but it feels good to let out all that built up anger on someone that deserves it. They always deserve it.

Bucky hadn’t deserved it.

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” Sam glances over at him as they approach the truck, looks down at Steve’s shaking hands. “How about I drive this time?”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Steve says. He fishes in his pocket and withdraws the keys, dropping them in Sam’s waiting hand. When he peeks into the truck cab, their prisoner is still knocked out, slumped in his seat. “We’re still bringing Fury his prisoners, so I guess all around? Mission success.”

Sam tosses him the Stark drive. “Don’t forget this. And the name that guy in the lab coat said. Strucker? We better start looking for him.” He tugs his mask down as he opens the driver’s door. “Now let’s go see what we can do about getting that hellhole blown sky high.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i personally am a huge fan of inglourious basterds so i had to not so sneakily throw a few references in there. truth is, this chapter is definitely hugely inaccurate and i made everything so easy for my own convenience but thats just the way it is sometimes. this is fanfiction, not a new york times best seller. i didn't put a huge fight in that last scene because i simply didnt feel like writing it. yes i waived away all competent security protocols and made everyone give out information ridiculously easily and i don't care. it fit my agenda for the chapter. i didn't really intend for bucky to have been kept in that base when i started this chapter, but the idea came to me as i was writing and i had to include it. we all know hydra are horrible bastards so them defacing the walls feels sadly accurate to me. bucky, baby, i am going to get you the warmest blankets and a sunroom and all the soup you could ever want i SWEAR. i feel a little bit like i didn't do enough emotional justice to the scenes in this chapter but i tried my best and that's all i can say. thank you so much for reading with me, leave a comment if you enjoyed!
> 
> also... translations below (please keep in mind that im still learning russian and it is a difficult language so these might not be wholly accurate or used in completely the right context, but again, i researched everything before adding it and tried my best)  
> Бабушка- babushka/grandmother  
> спокойной ночи- goodnight (literal translation: calm night)  
> Лапочка- little paw (can be used in the same context as one would use honey, sweetie, etc) (i call all my little siblings pet names so i wanted bucky to have one for revekka too)  
> Пошёл на хуй- go fuck yourself (when speaking to a male) (very crude and offensive)  
> Да- yes
> 
> (also, belarus does have its own language- belarusian, which is an official language of the country. however russian is also spoken there by the majority of the population and because i know russian better than belarusian- which is to say i don't know any belarusian at all although im sure they do have some carryover similarities between the two languages- i chose to go with russian for this chapter instead)


	6. Tell Me How Hard I Will Fall if I Live a Double Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooooo..... there's a lot going on in this chapter. im not gonna say much because spoilers but im introducing new plots and a new character and i really hope yall like the direction it's going!! i had fun with this chapter! i hope you have fun reading! let me know besties :)
> 
> chapter title from cold cold cold by cage the elephant

Natasha arrives in Minsk with a new haircut and a quickly cobbled together cover. Two months ago, suddenly being thrown into an undercover op would not have been an issue for her. She could have pulled out any number of personas, like a deck of cards in her hands ready to be shuffled. Now, though, all of those carefully built up characters have had their secrets scattered all over the world’s internet and she’s grasping at straws. Being as high profile as she is these days, missions such as this don’t fall into her lap anymore. There are plenty of other operatives that didn’t have their face plastered all over the world due to joining the Avengers. Natasha had gone from a high ranking covert spy to a SHIELD attack dog with a little more finesse than the average soldier.

It’s not that she minds wetwork. Combat missions are all fine and good. She isn’t afraid of blood caked beneath her nails and the smell of death in her nose. She’s comfortable with screams. But she was trained to do more than kill. Anyone can slit a throat or fire a gun. It takes a different skill set to slip out of your own skin, to become someone else entirely. Between the Red Room and SHIELD, when Natasha had been a free agent, she’d _lived_ in a revolving door of skins. Of personalities that she internalized and regurgitated whenever she needed them. There was a comfort in it. She didn’t have to look at herself and examine what she was when she could look in the mirror and see a different person every day if she wanted to. She’d die before she admitted it, but it’s been a really hard adjustment. To bury her spy career and accept that she will _never_ have that anonymity again. 

She’s mostly used to it now. Mostly. When Sharon Carter had slipped her that drive full of information, Natasha had passed the files along to Maria and assumed that she probably wouldn’t hear much of it beyond that. After all, she was up to her ears in hunting Hydra and most likely will be for possibly years to come. A disaster this big doesn’t just get wrapped up in a few weeks. There isn’t any going home and congratulating herself on another job well done. A poison that runs this deep will _always_ have to be kept in check. And there are very few people qualified to stay on top of it. She isn’t mad that she’s one of them. Truth be told, she was getting bored of SHIELD’s endless, mindless STRIKE missions. 

And a bored Natasha Romanoff is not something any international intelligence community wants to deal with ever again.

The last time that had happened, they’d spent two and a half years chasing ghosts around the world. At least this time she isn’t offering her services to the highest bidder with no care of who they were or what they wanted. She has _something_ of a moral compass to stand on. If murdering Nazis with great prejudice is good enough for Captain America, it’s more than good enough for her. 

So, yeah. She’d accepted that the girl with a hundred faces and a thousand lives is behind her. There’s no point in mourning for the past. All anyone ever has is the present and what they choose to do with it. But when they’d arrived in Belarus, as soon as they had a free moment, Fury had pulled her aside and asked her to put on a new face one more time. 

The files that Sharon Carter had given them lined up with and supported other information that Fury had uncovered since arriving in Europe. Stark had been right when he’d said Rogers had kicked a hell of an anthill. Even all the way across the pond, it’s descended into madness. Hundreds and hundreds of little ants running around everywhere in an angry frenzy. Which makes it both easy and exceptionally difficult to get information. There’s plenty of _talk_ but it’s a lot harder to deduce what’s accurate.

With his hands full of Hydra, Fury had relegated the rumors of a business springing up that supposedly has their hands all in mercenary work and genetic experimentation to _not important right now_. There’s always going to be mercenaries. And yeah, they’re an issue. But not as big of an issue as the Nazis and the rogue Winter Soldier that nobody has seen hide nor hair of since DC. But Sharon’s files had not only contained the same information that Fury already knew about this Serpent Solutions company, she’d handed them something they didn’t already have. A name. Ophelia Sarkissian. Former Hydra agent and now general chaos incarnate with a body count a mile long. Once they had that, it had only taken a little digging to discover that she has ties to Serpent Solutions. And word has it that she’s going to be in Minsk for an upcoming charity gala and auction. 

So, Natasha is now also in Minsk for said gala, putting on a brand new face. Just like old times. She isn’t Natasha Romanoff anymore, she’s Juliette Beaupre, retired French ballerina now living off of money from her family winery. A little on the nose, considering her skill in ballet had been included in the files she’d released, but she can still make it work. She’d stopped at a salon outside the city and got her hair cut to just above her jaw, with neat bangs falling just above her brows.

Her safehouse is not a safehouse at all, but rather a very nice hotel close to the city center. She pays in cash, showing her quickly thrown together identification papers. They need a little tweaking but the hotel clerk isn’t looking close enough to care. She declines help with her bags and takes the elevator up to her room. As soon as she gets her workspace set up, she gets to work making her cover watertight.

There’s a week until the gala. Plenty of time to make connections and secure an invitation. Tables were all already sold out, which leaves Natasha with the next best thing. The guest list she hacks into and the names of everyone who has bought a table. She steers away from those that might be able to see through her, focuses on easier targets instead. There just so happens to be the son of a Texas oil tycoon that’s got a table. Young, single, probably loves a French accent. Bingo.

She microwaves a can of soup and settles onto the couch for some research. The Chopin record she’d put on the turntable and the low lamplight sets the mood, turning what might otherwise be a tedious session of work into an enjoyable one. All in all, her only complaint is that her feet are cold, but she can’t be bothered to get up and look for a throw blanket so it’s really her own fault. Her target- Oliver Taggart- is ridiculously easy to track. The twenty four year old has his location all over Instagram. 

She’s on her way to the nightclub he’d just posted a picture of within ten minutes. Beneath her heavy faux fur coat, she’s got on a little black dress. Diamonds sparkle at her throat and hang from her ears. No one is going to look at her pouty red lips and smokey eyes and see the woman who very publicly helped dismantle an entire intelligence agency less than two months ago. The face controller waves her into the venue without a second glance.

After leaving her coat with the attendant, Natasha takes her time to scope the room for her target. She finds him sitting at a booth with a few other guys roughly his age and sidles up to them, holding up a pack of cigarettes she’d taken from her clutch. “Pardon,” she says, smiling slightly and leaning forward against their table. “Est-çe que vous avez du feu, s’il vous plaît?”

They gape at her for a few seconds, eyes dropping to her décolletage like clockwork until she clears her throat. Oliver Taggart has the unfortunate kind of face that even his daddy’s money can’t fix, ruddy complexion flushing an even darker red at her attention on him. He tugs at his shirt collar. “I- I failed French. Sorry.”

“My apologies,” she murmurs, free hand going to the diamonds at her throat. “I was asking if you have a lighter? It seems that I have lost mine.” The entire table of men turn out their pockets, producing a variety for her to choose from. She plucks Oliver’s from his fingers and sits down next to him at the edge of the round booth. “Merci. Do you mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest,” he swallows, scooting over slightly to give her more room on the bench. But not far enough that he’s not still in her personal space. “I’m Oliver.” He holds his hand out.

Natasha smiles as she lights her cigarette, taking a drag and letting the smoke curl from her mouth as she slips her hand into his and says, “Juliette. Juliette Beaupre.”

“So… you’re French? What brings you to Minsk?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What’s an American doing in Belarus?” She taps her smoke against the ashtray on the table with a smirk. “The ballet,” she says finally. “I came to visit an old friend that I attended ballet academy with many years ago.” It’s a big fat lie, of course. She doesn’t personally know anyone in the Belorussian ballet company.

He coughs a little, bringing his drink to his mouth. “Ballet? So, you’re flexible?”

Typical. She rolls her eyes and titters into her palm like he’s said something funny. “Not so much anymore, I’m afraid. I have retired from dancing. My time is spent managing the chateau these days.”

Oliver flashes a smile that’s probably supposed to look rakish and charming, but comes across more predatory than anything. That’s okay. He’s not the only one with teeth and if he gets her alone, he’ll quickly learn that she bites _much_ harder than he might ever dream of. “I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle. You know? Once you have it, it never goes away.”

It is most definitely _nothing_ like that. Natasha is no slacker but these days she doesn’t put time into ballet the way she had growing up. She’s flexible and she’s strong, of course, but she isn’t going to be doing any grand jetes anytime soon. “You never answered my question.” She brings her cigarette to her lips again, inhaling. “I told you what I’m doing here. It’s only fair you do the same.”

“There’s a charity gala this week,” he says, setting his drink on the table and plucking the cigarette from her hand to take his own drag. “My mother’s birthday is coming up and they’re auctioning off a vintage pearl jewelry set owned by Marilyn Monroe that she would love.”

“How sweet.” Natasha tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m quite the fan of galas, especially for a good cause. A couple of years back I attended one for a children’s hospital with my partner. A shame I hadn’t heard of this one sooner, I would have loved to attend.” Said children’s hospital gala was actually something Steve had begged her to go to with him. After they’d donated an appropriate amount of money and made as much small talk as either of them could bear, they’d stolen a whole tray of hors d'oeuvres and hidden in the library to eat them while shit talking every politician they’d just spent an hour rubbing elbows with.

“Partner?” Oliver’s brows furrow.

Ah. 

Shit.

Well, _that_ was a stupid slip up. Maybe she’s losing her touch in her old age. Kill missions don’t need delicacy or carefully chosen phrases. She’s falling out of practice with the intricacies of these things. Too bad spy school doesn’t offer refresher courses. “Yes, my-”

What she was going to say was her business partner. But before she gets the words out, Oliver’s eyes widen and he puts a hand on her shoulder. “ _Ah_. I understand. Soviet countries, yeah? Gotta keep it on the down low.” He winks, poorly. “No worries. I can keep a secret. Say, I have a whole table at the gala. I’d love to have you come as my guest. Bring your,” his voice drops to a whisper, “girlfriend, too. The more the merrier!” His mouth curls into a smirk. 

Her… girlfriend? Natasha blinks at him, eyebrows raised, polite smile on her lips. She’s got what she wants, an open invitation. And she’s going to take it, of course. Only now the guy thinks that she’s in a relationship with another woman and he’s _definitely_ angling for a threesome. It’d be easy enough to laugh it off. To correct his assumption with what she was originally going to say- _business_ partner- or to say something to the effect of thank you, but she’s not here with me. But…. 

But.

It could be fun.

Growing up, Natasha didn’t get to play dolls and dress-up like other little girls. Her games of make believe were as high stakes then as they are now. She likes undercover missions _because_ they’re a game. A story she can build up however she likes it, simple or complex. Whatever- _whoever_ \- she wants to be, she can make it happen. For however brief or long the mission is, she’s a blank slate. A clean page to write on. And this might be one of her last opportunities to create a new story for herself. Go big or go home. So, what’s to say that Juliette Beaupre the wine heiress _doesn’t_ have a girlfriend? She could get someone to play along. There’s Maria, who’s only a few hours away. There’s…. 

There’s Sharon Carter, with her soft brown eyes and kind smile, who’s information is the reason Natasha is even on this mission in the first place and who, at their last meeting, seemed desperately bored with what the CIA has relegated her to. It would be rude of Natasha to not offer her the opportunity to get out in the field. Especially on a fun mission like this one. And if Natasha doesn’t take the offer, Oliver might rescind his invitation. 

Yeah, okay. Juliette Beaupre can have a girlfriend.

“That’s so kind of you,” she smiles. “We’d love to.”

They exchange contact information and she sits at the booth with him for the next hour, chatting about his father’s business and how he’s set to take over it soon. Once you get arrogant men talking about themselves, they never shut up. Especially when they’re well on their way to drunk, the way Oliver Taggart is tonight. She declines his offers to buy her drinks, claims she’s off of alcohol for the week because of dance reasons. He nods along like that makes sense and when she’s determined that enough time has passed that she can politely make her exit, she leaves him with a kiss on the cheek and a whispered, “See you at the gala.”

When she gets back to her apartment, she dumps the fur coat over the back of the couch and flops stomach first onto the bed without even bothering to remove her heels or jewels. “Very nice, Natasha,” she mutters, face pressed against the comforter. It was a foolish move, really. It’s not that playing at being in a relationship is anything that ruffles her feathers, but it’s something that _does_ take two people. If Sharon doesn’t want to, then there’s always Maria, but chances are likely she’s too busy to be able to join Natasha in Minsk right now. Well. If it doesn’t work out, she can always say her unnamed girlfriend couldn’t get away from responsibilities or something. It’s fine.

She grabs her personal phone from the nightstand and rolls onto her back, dialing Sharon Carter’s number. It’s only late afternoon in DC, so she’s not surprised when the line picks up in moments.

“Natasha?” Sharon says, tinny through the speaker. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she drums her fingers against the back of the phone case. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Sharon laughs. “Not at all. In fact, you saved me from the stack of paperwork that’s waiting to be filed. What can I help you with?”

Natasha smiles a little at the derision lacing Sharon’s voice at the mention of paperwork. She likes Sharon. They’d always gotten along well working at SHIELD and Natasha would drop by with food occasionally when she knew Steve was out, trading chinese takeout for illicit updates on him. Technically, Sharon was only supposed to report to Fury, but she was easily plied with egg rolls and sweet and sour pork. Natasha isn’t really all that good at the whole _friends_ thing, not when it’s real. Aside from Clint, and more recently, Steve, she doesn’t really have anyone she would call a friend. Sam Wilson is moving up the list, though. And… she thinks the potential is there with Sharon. “Paperwork?” She hums. “Guess they’ve still got you on desk duty. Are you bored?”

“ _So_ bored. Why?”

“You wanna meet me in Minsk? I need a second on an undercover mission.” She toes off her heels, sending them clattering to the floor. “Don’t worry about your boss. I’ll handle him. He owes me a favor.” A big one. She’d foiled an assassination attempt on him a few years ago and has been holding the threat of calling in her favor ever since. It’s fun to see him squirm at the idea of owing anyone anything. 

“Are you _kidding?_ Hell yes, I want to join you.”

“Ah. Don’t say that until you’ve heard what the mission is.” Here’s the real kicker. “See… I accidentally got myself into this situation where my contact is under the mistaken impression that I have a girlfriend. So. I need someone to play the part and attend a charity gala with me.” She sits up, criss crossing her legs and sighing. “I’m here because of the information in that drive you gave me and I knew you were bored of what they have you doing now, so I figured I’d give you first shot. No pressure if you don’t want to play that kind of role. I’ll only take mild offense that you wouldn’t want to date me. Swear.”

There’s a few moments of near silence, only Sharon’s shallow breathing through the speakers. But when she answers, there’s a fierce determination in her voice. “When do you want me there?”

***

Sam knocks on Steve’s bedroom door three separate times with no answer before he just lets himself into the room. Fury and Maria have already been waiting for him to wake up and he hasn’t emerged yet so, as his closest friend in the safe house, it falls to Sam to make sure he hasn’t escaped through the window to go on a Hydra murder spree in the night. And that’s not an exaggeration. When Sam pushes the door open with a, “I’m coming in, Steve, you better not be naked,” he half expects the room to be empty. Other than the two agents, he’d been entirely too calm last night. It was weird. Sam had been fully prepared, after seeing that fucking cell, for another incident like the bank. There’s nothing that triggers Steve Rogers’ anger complex like the fate of Bucky Barnes. And last night had been a new, entirely horrifying, piece in the puzzle. 

The room isn’t empty when he lets himself in. Steve is curled up as small as he can get on the twin bed, back pressed to the wall, bloodshot eyes staring blankly ahead. He doesn’t even react to Sam coming in. He doesn’t move at all. 

Oh. Sam freezes in the doorway, hand spasming a little on the knob. Alright. This is… alright. He knows what this is. He knows how to deal with this. Hell, he’s been through it himself. It certainly puts Steve’s lukewarm reactions last night into perspective. “Hey,” he says and closes the door softly behind him as he steps further into the little room. He sits at the edge of the bed, putting one hand on Steve’s back, too warm even through the material of his shirt. “How you doin’, buddy?” Stupid question. Very clearly, Steve is not _doin’_ at all right now, in any way, shape, or form. “Hill and Fury sent me to get you for a debrief and to discuss our next step. But I can see that’s not gonna happen right now.”

Finally, Steve shifts. He blinks, slow and lethargic, gaze drifting up to Sam’s. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“Nope. No being sorry.” Sam pats his back and pushes to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

He lets himself out of the tiny room and heads for the kitchen, where he’d left the other two occupants of the house. They’re still eating breakfast and look at him expectantly when he enters. “Yeah, no,” he shakes his head. “So, talking isn’t happening today unless it happens without him. He’s practically catatonic right now.”

“Well, can you get him to snap out of it?” Fury frowns. “Thanks to you two and your plan modifications, we have a limited amount of time until Hydra discovers the bodies you left in their basement. If they haven’t already. We need to act now.”

“Look, I’m not a miracle worker, so I’m gonna say that’s highly unlikely.” Sam grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it nearly to the brim with cold water. He’s probably the best equipped person in the house to _try_ , but his experience hosting group sessions at the VA did _not_ prepare him for this. And he’s not going to be Steve’s pseudo-therapist while they’re on the road. The guy needs serious professional help, but Sam wouldn’t touch Steve’s mountain of issues with a ten foot pole even if he was getting paid to do it. He’ll be Steve’s friend and he’ll do what he can to help and support him through hard times like this but that’s all. There’s a line there and he’s not going to let it blur even if Fury thinks it’s convenient. “Just… I don’t know. Do what you want. I’m gonna sit with him.” He grabs an extra straw from the fast food bag sitting on the counter and drops it into the glass.

Steve is still laying exactly where Sam left him but his gaze flickers over this time when Sam comes into the room. That’s… progress. Kind of. He squats next to the bed and holds the straw to Steve’s mouth. “Drink.”

Steve squints at him for a moment but eventually he opens his lips around the straw and drains about half the glass before he decides he’s done. It’s less than Sam would have liked for him to drink, but he’ll take it. He puts the glass on the nightstand and sits on the bed again, this time with his back against the headboard. “I know how you’re feeling,” he says finally. “I… felt like this a lot, right after I got out of the Air Force. It was really hard to find a reason to get out of bed sometimes, you know?” He sighs and puts his hand on Steve’s head, fine blond hair slipping through his fingers as soft as cornsilk. All things considered, they really haven’t known each other long at all. Not even a full three months. But Sam is… comfortable with Steve. Like he isn’t with most people, not anymore. 

“I have reasons.” Steve says, hoarse. “I just….”

“Yeah. I know.” He keeps combing his fingers through Steve’s hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp with each pass. “You’re alright, Steve.” In the weeks immediately following his discharge and his return to civilian life, Sam’s mother had sat with him like this. Through every nightmare, through every day where he’d been so blank and so tired that she’d had to force him out of the bed to eat and to shower. Through him seeing Riley falling out of the damn sky every time he closed his eyes. He hadn’t wanted her there at the time. Had even lost his temper and shouted at her to leave him alone, entirely believing that he was unworthy of being cared for after he had let his best friend die. But he can see, in retrospect, having someone there through it helped. He might not even be functioning now if she hadn’t been there to knock sense back into him. And in reality, it had only been partially effective.

Sure, he considers himself well adjusted. He’s functioning, he can take care of himself and do his job. He eats mostly healthy and he stays hydrated. But outside of that… Sam has been pushing people away for a very long time. It wasn’t a struggle for him to make the decision to drop everything and hit the road with Steve and Natasha to hunt Hydra because other than his job, he didn’t really have anything important that he was leaving behind. He wasn’t living near his family, his closest friends were his coworkers and they were more like acquaintances at best. Beneath all of his fronts about how nicely he adjusted back to civilian life, how well he was handling his mental health and even helping others with theirs… Sam has a death grip on the ‘ _you can’t get hurt if you don’t let them get close_ ’ mentality. And he’d had no plans on letting go of it any time soon.

Unfortunately, Steve’s super soldier strength also seems to apply to knocking down Sam’s emotional walls as well as they apply to physical brick walls. And in the short time they’ve known each other, he’s wormed his way right into Sam’s firmly blocked off heart. Sue him, he _likes_ the big, dumb, blond beefcake in spite of it all. Being Steve’s friend is the natural next step in his journey of becoming well adjusted. It’s forcing him to realize that he has to let go and be willing to be afraid and be willing to get hurt. Truth is, the way they’re heading, it’s going to happen one way or another. Sam has finally found someone he _wants_ to put effort into a friendship with, but it’s going to lead to hurt and he knows it. 

Steve is reckless. He has big ideas and crazy dreams and he goes after them without hesitation because he thinks he’s invincible. His ailments pre-serum couldn’t kill him. The serum process couldn’t kill him. The war, the plane, the ice, the aliens, they couldn’t kill him. The Winter Soldier couldn’t kill him. It’s all up there, bouncing around in his head, and it makes him careless. What does it matter if he gets shot or stabbed or thrown in an explosion, right? All that serum in his cells, he’ll heal. He’s invincible.

Sam knows better. He knows because he and Riley had felt invincible too, soaring through the sky on wings, _truly_ flying in a way that most people can only ever dream of. And _feeling_ invincible has never stopped a weapon from aiming true and doing what it was built to do. But even if it isn’t a bullet that rips Steve’s friendship right back out of Sam’s lonely hands, it’ll be something else. 

Someone else.

Because the moment that he’s within reach, Steve is going to go running back to Bucky Barnes. And Sam can’t even begrudge it. Bucky was there first and he’ll probably be there last. He deserves that spot, at the top of Steve’s favorites; god knows he’s suffered enough to get this far with it. But Sam is… he is greedy. He doesn’t want to share, doesn’t want to get knocked down to second place- _third_ , really. Natasha Romanoff is not a force to be forgotten. But she isn’t here right now. Sam is. And he might not be enjoying every aspect of this trip, but in the light of day, without a mission looming immediately in front of him, he can admit it. He doesn’t want it to end. As long as they’re chasing Hydra- as long as they’re chasing _Bucky Barnes_ , he gets to keep this closeness. 

Does it all just stop the moment they find him? How deep does that anger run? If they reunite and Bucky decides he’s done, will Steve follow him or keep going? He wouldn’t blame Steve for wanting it to end. If anyone deserves to stop fighting, it’s the two of them. And Sam isn’t selfish enough that he doesn’t want that for them. There’s an ocean of complicated, convoluted feelings there that deserve to be sorted out. But he’s selfish enough that he doesn’t want it to happen _now_. 

What does he even do when the mission is done and it’s time to go home? Go back to his job at the VA and pretend like he isn’t an entirely different person now than he was a month ago? Back to running every morning and grabbing a quick shower and breakfast before heading off to his 9 to 5. Eating lunch alone in his office and coming home to a quiet, empty house. He might call his mom for half an hour while he makes dinner. Eat alone in front of the TV, go to bed, wake up, start over. Start over, start over, start over. Pretend like he’s doing enough to help when he talks to a group of vets about guilt and moving on. Pretend like he isn’t a hypocrite that’s holding onto bucketloads of guilt. Pretend like he doesn’t know he could be doing more. There are some horrors you just can’t unlearn. How does he fit the shape of who he is now back into the painstakingly constructed mold of who he was before?

Bucky Barnes isn’t the only person whose life has been wrecked by Hydra. They’ve sunk their claws into so many people and they’re still going. He’d followed up on the six people they’d found in that base in Connecticut. No survivors. Chances are the lab in the base they’d been to last night has some sort of human testing going on. There’s talk of it happening all over the place. At this point, even if Steve goes home… Sam doesn’t know that he can. Not anymore. 

When he looks down at Steve, he smiles, just a little. He’s fallen asleep, lashes resting against his cheekbones. Even like this, even without the tension in the line of his shoulders, he still looks exhausted and miserable. But at least he’s getting some sleep. That’s good. Because they still have a Hydra base to deal with and chances are, as soon as Steve comes out of this episode, they’re going to be sent out on a mission again. This makes at least two nights in a row that Steve hasn’t been sleeping, so he needs all the rest he can get before that happens. Ideally, Sam would like his mission partner to _not_ be dead on his feet from sleep deprivation when they’re in a danger zone. Even if he is a super soldier and could probably keep going a while longer without it.

Careful not to disturb him, Sam extracts his hand from Steve’s hair and stands. He pulls the door almost shut as he leaves, heading back to find the others. They’ve cleared the food from the kitchen table and spread out with laptops and notebooks. Sam ignores Fury’s scowl at the space next to him where Steve isn’t. “What can I do to help?”

“Like you didn’t do plenty last night?” Fury raises one brow.

“I’m not Steve’s keeper,” Sam snaps. “You and I both know he does what he wants, when he wants. I told him it wasn’t a good plan. He didn’t listen. But we made it out in one piece without raising any alarms and that’s a hell of an accomplishment, because that place was crawling with people.”

“Well, their alarms are sure going to be raised when they discover the bodies you so kindly left them.”

“Like your plan was so much better?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Look, we brought you more information than you could have gotten from those hostages. You’re welcome.” Someone had come very early that morning to pick up the Hydra guys and transfer them, hopefully, to prison. Sam had still been groggily staring into his coffee cup like it held the secrets to the universe at that point, so he’s not all that sure who they were or where they were from. 

“Enough. Both of you.” Maria glares at both of them. “This is pointless. There’s work to do and arguing over something that already happened and can’t be changed is just a waste of time.” She slides one of the three laptops in front of her across the table to Sam. “This program has all of the files you got from their system. See what you can find on that Strucker guy. I’ve been working on arranging for a team to come in to deal with that base.”

“You planning on blowing it?”

“Not at this point. The machinery factory they’re under is a legit operation. We’re trying to do the least amount of damage to the local economy as possible.” She shrugs and takes a long drink from her coffee mug. “As it stands, we have some contacts in the local and government law enforcement. We’re working with them to get permission to go in and shut the whole place down while we clear it. Thanks to you two and these files, we know they have a number of American operatives working for them after DC, so they’ll be processed and extradited to the US for trial and sentencing. But unless they have some kind of self destruct sequencing set up for that base, we should be leaving it intact.”

“I don’t know about self destruct, but you’re not gonna clear the place without casualties. On both sides.”

“Be that as it may. As soon as we get it cleared and we have a fireteam assembled, we’re going in after them.” Fury leans back in his chair, sighing heavily. “Whether Rogers is back to his normal bloodthirsty self or not. He’s an asset in a fight but we don’t _have_ to have him. Are you willing to go back in?” He points the tip of his pen at Sam.

Sam thinks about the night before. About the stockpiles of weapons and the sheer number of personnel. About the guarded laboratory doors and the _containment room_ behind them on the floor plans. About that _fucking_ cell and the way it was defaced. He’s always considered himself a pretty level headed person. Not one likely to get so wrapped up in emotion that he can’t think clearly. And he’ll never touch Steve’s level of rage. That’s not something anyone could easily do. But last night had ignited something in him; a fire in his gut that hadn’t been fully burning before. Sure, he’d been horrified by the reveal of Hydra’s thriving existence. Sickened by the files and videos they’d seen of Bucky Barnes’ time with them. But he didn’t join the fight _only_ because he was angry. He joined because it was the right thing to do. 

Reading the misery from the mouth of the one who had experienced it, rather than from the apathetic words of his captors… that’s what had flipped it for Sam. Ironic, how it had been the opposite for Steve. All this time, Steve has been beyond furious, but not surprised. He’s had too much experience to be shocked, even at the details from the Winter Soldier files, because he’s always been aware of what Hydra is capable of. Sam, who has had no previous experience with them, has spent the past weeks in varying states of cold horror. Yet the cell had been a breaking point of sorts for both of them. Steve, who, looking back, probably went into _actual_ shock from seeing it. And Sam, who finally woke up from his and now cradles his own little ball of burning rage that he’s more than willing to nurture into a full blown blaze. 

He flattens his hands on the table. “Yeah, I’ll go back in.” 

“I’m going with you.”

All three of them jump at Steve’s rough voice. How a guy that big manages to move around and make absolutely no noise is beyond Sam. He whips around to look at Steve, standing in the doorway. His little nap hasn’t left him looking any better than he had when Sam had left him in the bedroom. Face pale and pinched and blank. He’s out of bed though which is… good? Like… he needs sleep but staring at a wall in a shock induced depressive spiral probably wasn’t doing him any favors. The guy is tenacious, if nothing else. Determined. “Steve, I don’t know if you’re in the right shape to-”

“I’m _going with you_.” Steve repeats, leaning heavily against the doorframe. Anger flashes in his tired eyes. “I told you. The bastards will wish they were in hell before I’m done with them. I’m going.”

***

Being out in the world is very different from holing up in a safehouse in the middle of nowhere. At first, it had felt less like reality and more like a mission. Something that would quickly be over and then he would be stashed back in cryo again for the next however many months or years until he was needed again. But now that Bucky has been moving and time has been passing, his body is beginning to realize that this is going to be a _thing_ now. And boy, is that coming with its own set of issues. When he’s in mission mindset, he can tune out everything but relevant data. He has a singular focus and nothing distracts him from it.

Now, though, his body doesn’t know _what_ to do. As a consequence, he’s been hyperalert of _everything._ Every sound grates on his nerves like fingernails on chalk, so he avoids crowds like the plague. All of the voices overlapping each other makes the back of his neck prickle and his palms sweaty and his breathing all uneven. He’s not sleeping. Letting his guard down long enough to fall asleep is impossible and even if it wasn’t, the noise keeps him up. Even just the creaking of whatever building he finds himself in settling. He tries noise canceling earbuds for about two minutes before he promptly decides that one, they’re impractical because he won’t be able to hear anyone sneaking up on him. And two, he can’t handle silence either. 

Five years in a soundproofed cell will do that to you.

He’d thrown the buds violently across the empty room he had holed up in for the night and curled up on his sad little blanket pile, breath coming in harsh, rapid gasps. So… yeah, he’s not sleeping. And it shows, when he looks in the mirror. His eyes are shadowed in purple-black, the whites shot through with red. He’s pale, too, but that’s probably a lot to do with him not exactly getting much sun over the past seventy years. At least as long as he doesn’t sleep, he can’t have any nightmares. What a fuckin’ silver lining.

Travel is an issue. He’d had the little jet, but even with its stealth abilities, it’s not like he can just disappear from radar. So he’d dumped it as soon as he got to Europe. The last thing he needs is to get the military on his ass for unauthorized flight. Commercial flights are a big no and he isn’t too crazy about the idea of trains either. Which is how he finds himself in the Hungarian countryside, in a car he’d bought off of an old lady for far more cash than it was worth. It’s still more trackable than he would like, but as long as he lays low, it should get him through for a little while at least. 

He spends a lot of time parked near random houses, piggybacking off of their internet to figure out his next move. Hunched over a laptop in the backseat, with no less than three weapons in reach, he slowly builds a plan. He’s got a few people he needs to take care of for sure, names he’s come across that spark memories. Rumlow had gone down in the fall of the Triskelion, but he’d survived and is now in the wind according to chatter among the intelligence community. He _has_ to go for sure.

He also needs to be on the lookout for the possibility of another Winter Soldier out there. He does some digging but turns up jack shit on the fate of the fifth one other than news reports of the final mission he’d been sent on- a bombing at the office of some politician. There were a lot of bodies exhumed from the ashes but no positive hit. And Bucky isn’t stupid enough to think the guy couldn’t have disappeared if he wanted to. Before Hydra ever even got ahold of them, every candidate for the program were already elite soldiers with kill counts a mile long. For a guy that speaks thirty languages and knows how to hide in plain sight, faking his death would have been easy. 

Bucky doesn’t like to think about the existence of people out there who are better than him at his job. It doesn’t matter that he’d been forced into it, that he would have never made the choice to become this in the first place. The fact is, these are just the cards he has been dealt. And he’s fucking competitive. He always has been. These days, that streak doesn’t manifest itself in having to be the best at science and math or proving himself the most helpful to his mother or being the most versatile player in street baseball. But he’s still fighting to prove himself _better, better, better._ Better than any other operative out there. Better than what Hydra made him to be. He’s still a killer but he’s been one of those since nineteen forty fuckin’ three.

He has a unique opportunity now, one he’s really never had before. Being a free agent, he can plan his own missions. From top to bottom, the choices are _his_. Not the Army’s, not _Steve’s_ , and definitely not Hydra’s. Just Bucky’s. 

It feels really good to be _just Bucky_.

Well. Not, like… the greatest he’s ever felt. He’s doing pretty shitty, actually. But he’ll take being a jumpy, scared of his own _shadow_ bastard over being a mindless one or being locked up. So what if too many _and_ too little sounds are equally likely to bring him to panicked tears? So what if can’t sleep and he’s had a fucking brutal migraine since he left Canada? He gets to be a person now! Yay for existing! 

And the longer he’s a person, the more _fucking pissed off_ he gets. The more Hydra files he goes through, the more he builds up his little mental map and mission plan, the less it becomes about making sure there’s no one left that has a chance of getting any sort of control over him. Naturally, that’s still a huge factor in his motivation. But he’s starting to realize just exactly what has driven Steve Rogers into fighting his entire life. Bucky had never been one quick to anger, before. And he isn’t now either. This comes on measured and steady, building until he feels like he’s going to boil over and burn up everything in his path. 

His list of targets aren’t just there to ensure his own freedom. They’re there because they had a hand in _doing this shit_ to him. Which rapidly expands his list from the few people whose names he remembers being in the inner circle of his program- like Rumlow- to every goddamn scientist connected to the organization. They were constantly bringing in white coated bastards to analyze his blood or try him on different drug cocktails or fuck around with his healing capabilities. Just because they might not know how to get him under control doesn’t give them a free pass from his fury. As a matter of fact, it condemns them to a worse fate. His handlers, they have to go quick and easy. Before they get the chance to open their mouths. The scientists… he can take his time with them.

Just like they took their time on him.

The nearest one that he can pin down is just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Over the border from Hungary to Slovakia, there’s a pharmaceutical laboratory headed by a scientist by the name of Ivana Bosko. To the public eye, the lab produces much needed medicines and vaccines. But anyone with access to Alexander Pierce’s private Hydra records would know that behind that front, the lab _really_ makes and distributes a variety of drugs specific to Hydra. Performance enhancers for field agents, drugs that lower inhibitions for easier information extraction, drugs that make one more susceptible to taking orders. Bucky had been the bitch’s first test subject, back in the 90s and most of those drugs had been developed off of his DNA. 

Oh, Hydra had loved her. She was a prodigy and Karpov had snapped her right up onto his team. She’d been there to help develop the serum- which they’d never managed, considering they’d had him kill Howard Stark to get their hands on his version of the stuff- but during her time there she’d had free rein to run whatever damn tests she wanted on the Soldier. She was never there for the chair or the words. But once he was appropriately brain fucked with electricity, it was no holds barred. He can admit that it was something of a feat- she hadn’t been able to produce a super soldier serum but she’d managed to create a drug that mimicked it for a couple of hours. Not all of it, like the healing factor, but increased strength and speed and reflexes. He’s fairly certain he’d seen Rumlow and his team popping capsules of the stuff before their battle on the highway with Steve and his friends. 

Before he makes his way to Slovakia, though, there’s one thing he has to check. Because he does not want to even be in the same _country_ as Steve Rogers. That’s asking for trouble. They’re in close enough circles now that whatever he does, Steve is likely to hear about it. And he doesn’t have an issue with that, not really. After all, Bucky is only one person. An enhanced one, yes, but there’s still just one of him. Steve has a team and he has access to resources that Bucky doesn’t. Which means Bucky can revert back to fresh out of brainwashing him’s brilliant idea of _using_ him. It kills two birds with one stone, really. He can direct Steve towards the bases that he can’t necessarily take on by himself and also, make sure the poor guy knows he’s alive.

The last thing he wants is to hurt him. Revekka had told Bucky, in no uncertain terms, that Steve is a _wreck_. Well, that makes two of them. All the comfort Bucky can offer him from afar is the knowledge that he’s alive and kicking. And as much as he _loves_ Steve, he can’t give him anything else. Not right now. Right now, he doesn’t have room for anything but _himself_ and his anger and his mission. Steve has other friends who will take care of him while Bucky can’t.

It’s not all that hard to track him, all things considered. Oh, to the average person, there would be no connecting the Belarussian national news to Steve in any way. But Bucky _knows_ Steve and he can see through the articles detailing how the government had discovered an active Hydra cell in their country. Officially, a specialized team of soldiers had been sent into the base to arrest the Hydra agents and shut down their operations. They’d resisted, of course, resulting in a high list of casualties. Unofficially? There are… consistencies. A flair for violence he’d seen in Steve Rogers all the way back even in the war. It’s been perfected now, honed by anger and a loss of belief in humanity.

So, he’s in Belarus. That’s good. That’s far enough out of Bucky’s way that he’ll be long gone before Steve hears of him and comes looking. 

Bucky goes to Slovakia. 

He finds an abandoned barn not _too_ far from the laboratory and settles in to prepare. Ideally, he wants to be as alert as possible when he goes in, even though the lab is unlikely to have more than a few security guards. Using a system of intervals, he manages to get about three hours of sleep over the night. He wakes up fully about an hour and a half before sunrise and pulls his gear out of his duffle bag, ready to go. He has _no_ intentions of making this as easy a death as a snipe, so he forgoes the rifles in favor of a selection of handguns with silencers on them and about twenty knives concealed on various parts of his body. 

While the morning is still dark, he makes the trek to the lab. Clearly, they have an early clock in time here, because the parking lot is already full of cars and he can see personnel through the windows. It’s goddamn five in the morning. Bucky slinks around to the back of the property and finds a decent spot to scale up to the roof, mindful of the security cameras. He doesn’t have any sort of face covering on. He wants Doctor Bosko to look right at him when he makes her feel every bit of the pain she put him through.

Bucky crouches on the roof, out of sight of anyone on ground level and locates the access hatch. He’s about to start toward it when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Another guy, muscled and dressed in combat gear, climbing onto the roof just a little ways down from Bucky. What the fuck, there had been no outside security team when he’d cased the place. He squints in the dark and when he makes out the guy’s features, his jaw drops.

When he’d decided he needed to be on the lookout for the other Winter Soldier, he hadn’t been expecting that to need to be applied so immediately. So, Hydra had snapped Josef back up. It makes sense. Doctor Bosko had been there for his making and considered him one of her successes. She wouldn’t let him die so easily. A little overqualified to be a personal guard dog, but isn’t that what Alexander Pierce had mostly used the Asset for until the end?

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” Bucky mutters under his breath. And, right. Enhanced senses. Josef’s head snaps toward Bucky and his eyes widen only slightly when they lock on him. Bucky jumps to his feet right as Josef charges. It’s a harsh callback to the time in Siberia, when his task had been to fucking _train_ this guy. He grabs Bucky’s metal wrist and twists his arm harshly out of the way, knee coming up to slam into his gut.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Be _better_.

Bucky grits his teeth. Not this time. Josef might have been able to beat him while Bucky’s brain had been fried and he’d had all kinds of drugs going through his system, but he’s not going to beat him now. He rolls with the blow and gets back to his feet, knife in hand. He comes in on the offensive, fast and hard. His left fist drives into Josef’s solar plexus, forcing him to stumble back, but he recovers fast enough to block Bucky’s knife as it arcs down toward him. Bucky grunts as his real wrist is twisted, Josef flipping him over his shoulder and slamming him into the ground.

He rolls, reverses their positions before Josef has a chance to immobilize him and brings his knife down at his throat. Josef’s hands fly up, grabbing Bucky’s wrist again just before the tip can slash through his skin

“Hydra freak.” Josef’s arm shakes against the pressure of holding the tip of Bucky’s knife away from his throat. “Should’ve killed you back in Siberia when I-” he grunts, “had the fucking chance.”

What.

“I ain’t a fuckin’ Nazi,” Bucky hisses, flipping his knife to his left hand. “Fuck Hydra and fuck _you_.” He brings the blade down again.

“Wait, wait,” Josef blocks the blow. “You’re not working with Hydra?” He blinks up at Bucky, face tight.

“ _No_ , I’m not-” Bucky scowls. “I am _not_ fucking working with those Nazi _fucks_.” He doesn’t give up his advantage, but he doesn’t actively try to stab him again. Yet. “Are _you_ with them?”

“Why the fuck would I be with them? They tried to kill me.”

He could be lying. Trying to throw Bucky off guard just to get the upper hand again. But he’s not… fighting. He’s gone still underneath him, holding back Bucky’s arm but not actively trying to reverse their positions. 

“Better they try to kill you than try to keep you,” Bucky says finally, and rolls off of him, sitting back on his knees. He’ll take his chances, keeps his knife still in hand, but…. “You’re interrupting my mission.”

“ _You’re_ interrupting _my_ mission.” Josef mutters, sitting up. He brushes gravel off of his gear with a grimace. “Why the hell are you _here?_ ”

“Why do you think? I got a bone to pick with that evil little scientist.” He points his knife at the access door. It hasn’t opened and no team of security has come spilling out so their brief little altercation must not have drawn attention. Miraculously. “Don’t tell me you came to kill her too, ‘cause I got plans for her and I ain’t too inclined to share.”

“No, I need her for information. You can’t kill her.”

Bucky glares at him. “Listen here, Josef-”

“Zima.”

“What?”

“I haven’t gone by Josef since I escaped Hydra. It’s just Zima.”

“Really?” Bucky arches a brow at him and finally holsters his knife. His hands are empty and in clear sight. If he goes for a weapon, Bucky can have one back in his hand just as quickly. “Of all the names you could pick, you go with _Winter?_ ”

“What, did you pick something _better?_ It just happened.”

“I didn’t have to pick something. I _have_ a name.” Bucky gets to his feet, holds out his left hand to his fellow soldier. When Zima grasps it, he hauls him up. “Bucky goddamn Barnes. And I’m here to kill this Nazi bitch.”

“You _can’t_ -”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

“She’s in contact with a Hydra base whose main focus is human experimentation. And not like us. They’re making something completely new there.” Zima snaps, grabbing Bucky’s arm. “I’ve been following her for _weeks._ This is a huge new project for them. She’s developed something for it. I don’t know what and I don’t know where their base is. I don’t care if you chop her to fucking pieces but you’re not doing it until I get what I want out of her.”

“Hydra does human experimentation all the time,” Bucky says. Sure, it’s a little concerning, but not enough to make him change his mission. Any Hydra base you go to is going to have dabbled in it at some point. “Why do you care so much?”

“I’m not going to sit back and let them do what they did to me to anyone else. Don’t you care?”

“I can’t save everyone.” Bucky frowns. “And I’m a little busy still trying to save myself.”

“Fine. Like I said. I don’t care if you chop her to pieces. But you’ll do it after I get my information out of her.” Zima tilts his head toward the door. “Now, do you want to stand up here and gossip until they hear us and the whole mission is blown for both of us or do you want to go get her?”

Bucky sucks his lower lip between his teeth and sighs. There’s no way of getting out of this. Short of just killing Zima, of course. And though he’d been actively trying to do just that only a few minutes ago, he’d feel bad if he did it now. It would be a stupid move, too, because clearly he knows intel that Bucky doesn’t. And if he intends to get information out of Doctor Bosko, Bucky fully intends to catch up on this human experimentation base too. It’s good to be aware of all of his enemies. If whatever they’re making there has succeeded, he needs to know about it before he plans his next move. “Fine.”

There’s something about fighting _with_ an equal, rather than against him that disorients Bucky. It brings him back to the war, to fighting shoulder to shoulder with Steve. But this is nothing like that and Zima is nothing like Steve. There’s no connection there, no easy anticipation of what’s going through his head. He has guns strapped to his thighs but he favors using his bare hands. The first white coated technician they come across, he grabs by the collar and demands, “Where is Doctor Bosko?”

The guy gasps and struggles, feet kicking uselessly above the ground. “Her lab is on the second level. Please.” Zima flips him around, hands in position to snap his neck. 

_No witnesses_.

“Wait,” Bucky says. He steps closer, glancing up and down the hall. They’re the only ones here. “We don’t even know if he’s with Hydra.”

Abruptly, the young tech jerks, eyes rolling back in his head as foam spills out of his mouth. 

“Or maybe he is.” Bucky amends. “Jesus, they’re still using fuckin’ cyanide teeth?”

“Bosko trained under Arnim Zola. She likes the classics.” Zima drops the tech’s body with a grimace. “I told you, I’ve been following her for weeks. This whole operation is a fake front. They’re _all_ Hydra.”

Of fucking course they are. “Well then,” he cracks his knuckles. “Mission rule number one it is. No fuckin’ witnesses.” His mind is quiet when he’s in mission mode. All that matters is the weapon in his hand and the target he’s aiming it at.

They turn a corner into a busier hallway and Zima immediately pulls the pin on a grenade, tossing it into the midst of the scientists, green gas spilling out of it.

“Are you crazy?” Bucky jerks the collar of his jacket up over his nose. It won’t filter well enough to leave him completely unaffected, like his mask as the Soldier would have but it’s better than nothing. 

Zima just looks at him through the hazy cloud, face impassive. “It doesn’t have an effect on us. You should know this.”

Bucky frowns and breathes in. While the scientists have all dropped, choking and gasping on the toxic air, he’s completely unaffected. Maybe he _should_ know this. But he hadn’t. Any time he’d ever encountered chemical agents, he’d been wearing his mask. There is… maybe a lot that he doesn’t know about his body and his capabilities, because he’s simply never had the opportunity to learn. His serum wasn’t fully active by the time he’d fallen from the train- no radiation to speed the process along for him- and after that, he hadn’t learned anything Hydra didn’t want him to learn. Zima might have had twenty years to figure himself out but Bucky… Bucky has only had just under two _months_. He grits his teeth. Everything is too close, like the walls are about to close in on him and he’s sweating beneath his gear. But there’s no time to panic now. _Mission focus_. “Let’s go,” he mutters.

They methodically work their way down from the top, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. With two of them, it’s a lot easier to clear a room before they can even start screaming. Bucky reloads and reloads and reloads and doesn’t think about the blood slicking the floor under his boots. When they reach the second level, Zima takes point and engages the guards while Bucky kicks down the door to Doctor Bosko’s lab. She doesn’t even notice, not at first. Her back is turned and she’s wearing earbuds, nodding along to music only she can hear as she bends over a lab table. 

She notices when Bucky puts his gun to her temple and jerks the wired buds from her ears.

“Hands flat on the table where I can see ‘em,” he says. “Remember me, Doctor Bosko?”

Her eyes are wide, horrified. “Солдат?”

“In the fuckin’ flesh. And boy, do I have plans for _you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so now that its not spoilery to Talk-  
> 1) natsharon has now been moved up to a main relationship pairing simply because i want them to be. the natsharon tag is sadly lacking so im gonna give yall some good fake dating content im so so excited for this  
> 2) i don't read comics. so my portrayal of the serpent society and comic characters like ophelia sarkissian are going to be solely based off of my wikipedia readings and then my own interpretation. if ur a comic reader sorry if its inaccurate but that's just the way it is so please smile and nod.  
> 3) ive struggled a little to connect with sam in this fic and for a while i didn't know where i was going to take his character but i think i finally got him in this chapter. sam cap is something so special to me and naturally i couldn't write this fic without taking him there.  
> 4) in the civil war movie, the other winter soldiers were all implied to be hydra agents before they ever took the serum but i don't fuck with that. so in my world where civil war doesn't exist, they were victims of hydra too. yay for bucky making an ally!  
> 5) doctor bosko is entirely made up. mcu said we're gonna give you two names of people on the winter soldier program and you just have to make it work. so i will now be creating my own evil scientists and the like to have them fight, as one does.
> 
> also, next weeks chapter mayyyy be delayed. i'm going to have family visiting so i won't have as much time to write as i normally do. just a heads up in case but i'll try to get it out on time!


	7. In The Business of Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....hey.... hey.... how are yall doin'??? 
> 
> very sorry about the lapse in updating! some of you may know that i live in texas and we got hit really hard with that winter storm so i didn't have power or water for a week and writing just wasn't on my mind. and then i had family visiting and when i did have time to write i was fighting really bad writers block ugh u know how it is sometimes. but at long last... the chapter is here! and she's a big one so get some water and settle in! chapter title is from misery business by paramore. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:  
> the very first scene is from bucky's pov and it contains graphic torture. both his memories of what was done to him and him torturing the person who did those things to him. you can skip/skim over if you want, it won't really affect the plot but i did warn at the beginning of this fic that it would be gory and dark. personally i think bucky should be allowed to have some revenge! let him torture his abusers! this is not the fic for you to read if you want him to snap back onto a moral high horse!

Bucky has Doctor Bosko cuffed to a chair with duct tape over her mouth by the time Zima returns. He’s got blood spattered across his face and his uniform, but he’s clearly entirely unharmed. He lets out a sigh when he sees the frantic scientist. “I figured you would kill her before I came back.”

“Oh, please,” Bucky says from his perch sitting on the workbench directly across from the Doctor’s chair, where she has no choice but to look at him and wonder what he has in store. “I’m not making it that easy. Besides, now I feel like I need to know this information.” Whether it ends up being anything he gives a damn about it to be determined. But it never hurts to know. 

Zima grunts and stalks around the lab, pulling open drawers and rifling through their contents. He glances through files and tosses them aside carelessly, papers scattering across the floor when they evidently don’t have what he’s looking for. Bucky didn’t come here for anything but some good, old fashioned murder, so he ignores it and focuses his attention on having a one sided staring contest with the Doctor. She’s sweating profusely, gaze meeting his only to skitter away immediately, again and again. 

He keeps his expression schooled, the same menacing stare Hydra had taught him to perfect. It’s not the first time she’s ever been on the end of it, but it is the first time that he hasn’t been in reinforced shackles. She’s nervous and with damn good reason to be. He slips one of his knives free of its sheath and starts twirling it between his fingers. It’s a trick that he’d picked up before he ever even got to war, had learned it at basic and perfected it in the European theatre. Hours upon hours dug into trenches, equally as bored as he was terrified out of his mind. Twirling his knife kept his hands busy enough that no one had noticed how they’d shook. 

Evidently irritated by being unable to find whatever it is that he’s searching for, Zima marches over and bends down over Doctor Bosko, ripping the tape away from her mouth. “Where are the real files?”

She grimaces, gaze darting between the two of them. “You really think I will tell you?”

“Where. Are. They?”

“Nowhere you will ever find them.”

Zima straightens up abruptly and turns to face Bucky. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Nothing that will impair her ability to talk.”

Oh. _Oh_. So this is how they’re playing it. Bucky can get on board with this. He wanted to make it slow anyway. He grins, all bared teeth and no joy and hops down from his seat as Zima steps aside. Bosko’s eyes are wild and she shakes as she fights against restraints she has no hope of breaking out of. “Where to start,” Bucky murmurs, circling her chair. He squats in front of her, hands on his knees. “What’s my name, Doc?”

“С-Солдат… пожалуйста.”

“That ain’t my name. Try again. I know you know it.”

She swallows hard. “James. Sergeant James Barnes.”

“Aw.” Bucky flips his knife back and forth between his real hand and his metal one. “You _do_ know me. I’d say I’m touched, but it’s hard to feel affection for the person who chopped out my liver while I was still awake just to see how quickly it would grow back.” If it’s even possible, her face pales more. “Yeah. You should be scared. See, I used to consider myself a gentleman. Would’a died before I ever laid a hand on a lady. You freaks took that away from me. Hydra wanted me to be a monster so badly. Well, now I am one.” 

The words come out cool, menacing. But his stomach is turning a little. This won’t be his first foray into torture- not even as himself. Being in an elite task force during World War Two did not lend itself to softheartedness. He’ll do the job and he won’t hesitate. Because he didn’t lie. He _is_ a monster. He just never wanted to become one. “Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I have no interest in cutting out your organs.” 

Right. From the bottom up then. He reaches for her foot, taped to the chair leg, and slips her shoe off. When she’d had her hands on him, she’d favored methods more inclined to ‘scientific progress’. Bucky doesn’t give a good goddamn about science; he’s already had his taste of it. He doesn’t want her cells or her bone marrow and he doesn’t want to run experiments that hide a sadistic motivation behind the front of research. He just wants it to hurt. Because she had hurt him. Losing a few toenails ain’t gonna do any kind of damage to her ability to talk. Might even loosen her tongue.

Half the time, torture as a means of interrogation is wholly ineffective. All it does is make the victim more likely to lie. Whether they have information and don’t want to share it or they _don’t_ have anything and they’re just saying shit to get the pain to stop. But Bucky and Zima are no average interrogators and are better trained in picking up tells. And Bucky has all the time in the world. If she won’t tell them what they want to know, they have other means of finding it out. 

“Нет.” Doctor Bosko gasps, jerking her leg against the tape. The chair skids a few inches. Bucky grabs it with his left hand and pulls it back to where he had positioned it. “Нет, пожалуйста.”

He stares up at her, jaw clenched. “No, see. We aren’t doing that. You don’t get to speak that language to me.” Russian is _his_. It doesn’t belong here, not anymore. “Actually, you don’t get to speak at all.” He reaches up and smoothes the tape back down over her mouth. Most of the time before she’d gotten started on him, he’d been injected with her experimental paralytics. Just her and her scalpel and him on the table, unable to move, unable to fight, unable to even scream. And it didn’t matter, right? Because he would heal, so what difference did it make? Do whatever you want as long as there was no permanent damage to the Asset. He tosses her thin sock aside and wedges the tip of his knife right under her fresh pedicure.

Her shrill scream is muffled by the tape over her mouth.

Normally this would be done with a pair of pliers but he doesn’t have those handy. That’s fine. He can improvise with the best of them. He uses his knife as a lever to pry the nail up from the bed and then pinches the hard tissue between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and rips it out from the root. There are big, fat tears rolling down her face but she doesn’t make another noise, fury burning in her watering eyes. It’s gonna take more than one to get her ready to talk. Not surprising. Even Hydra’s favorites had to be made of tougher stuff than the average person.

And maybe the blank apathy of the Soldier is something that has been in Bucky all along. His first couple of times doing this, in the war, he’d thrown up and cried afterwards. No matter that he knew the person he was hurting was _evil_ , was an advocate for the mass genocide of innocents, it had been hard to remember past the screams. There had been a time once, when it took him apart to inflict harm, even when it came easy to him. Men falling under his bullets like nothing, his kill count ticking higher and higher and his COs slapping him on the back with a grin and _you’re a natural, kid._ Like he was throwing a baseball, not taking a life. After Azanno, it was easier. He didn’t cry anymore, but he’d still flinched away from the reality of what he had been becoming. Now… now he just doesn’t care.

He watches the doctor sob and shake and fight against her bonds. He watches her lose control of her bladder somewhere halfway through the third nail he takes off. He watches and he just. Does not fucking care. There’s nothing but a great big emptiness in his chest and a hollow satisfaction. This is _nothing_. He’d have lost his nails a hundred times over to escape some of the shit she did to him. And he wants her to understand, before he lets her die, _exactly_ what that felt like. People like this, with a sick desire to hurt, they will never understand the impact of their actions unless they’ve been on the other side of it, too. 

When he finishes with her right foot, his fingers and knife are stained red and he’s got a tidy pile of nails on the ground next to him. He wipes the blade off on her white pants and sheaths it as he stands. Without him having to even say anything, Zima pushes away from the table he’s leaning against, trading places with him. 

“Let’s try again,” Zima says, taking the tape from her mouth. “I want to know what’s happening in Sokovia. Where are the files?”

She licks her lips, tongue bloody from being bitten. “Not here,” her voice is hoarse, shaking. “It’s all… classified. The lab isn’t secure enough. They’re not here.”

“Where are they?”

A faint smirk flashes across her face. 

Bucky folds his arms over his chest. “You have another foot and ten fingernails that I haven’t even touched yet.” And if that isn’t enough, he has plenty of other ways to make her talk.

Doctor Bosko flinches, avoiding his gaze to look at Zima instead. “They’re in a safe with a biometrically controlled locking mechanism. In my private lab.” She shifts in her seat. “But even if you have them, you will never get inside the Sokovian base. They have impenetrable security.”

“I’ll figure it out.” Zima straightens and turns to Bucky. “Her private lab is in her home, across the city. It’s protected by biometrics. She’s telling the truth. We can keep our deal but you’ll have to go with us.”

“‘S not like I got anything else better to do.” Bucky shrugs. He can kill her in her home as easily as he can kill her here. Evidently Zima doesn’t have quite the burning hatred for her that Bucky does, because if he did, he’d be wanting a share of the bloodshed. Bucky was her patient zero. Whatever she’d done to him, she clearly hadn’t felt the need to repeat on the others. He glances around at the lab, at the refrigerated cabinets full of hybrid drugs. “This place needs to burn.” People don’t need access to what this lab contains. Not the drugs and not the research. Of course, this won’t be the only place that the information exists. But it’s the only one he can do something about immediately. 

Zima purses his lips. “Yes. There is a lot of flammable material. It should not be hard to engineer an explosion.”

“No!” Doctor Bosko protests. “The research here… it is valuable.”

“Shut up.” Bucky snaps, putting the tape over her mouth again. “If it’s valuable to Hydra, then I want it to burn.”

Between him and Zima it doesn’t take long to set the explosion up how they want it to be. There are all kinds of tanks of gasses and other things with big WARNING: FLAMMABLE labels. They set them up in a way that one explosion will trigger another and the whole building will go up. It’s not something that will look like an accident, but he doesn’t need it to be. Zima takes the doctor out to a car and Bucky sabotages the security tapes before he gathers up the damning paperwork that _doesn’t_ have drug formulas and piles it all in the gatehouse, far enough away from the main building that it shouldn’t be incinerated. He considers leaving a note, something like he had back in DC and Cleveland. But local police are gonna be the ones to find this, not Steve. Anything he leaves wouldn’t make the news where Steve would see it anyway.

And. And if he wants to send a message to Steve. Well, Jamie had slipped him two different papers before he’d left her house. The first was a copied version of the photograph of him and Revekka and Steve. It now resides in Bucky’s breast pocket. The second was a slip with the number to Steve’s secure line. He just… hasn’t been able to bring himself to do anything but stare at it. He wants to, he really does. Maybe he will; this is big enough he might have to. 

Bucky takes the passenger seat of the car the Zima pulls up in. The backseat is empty and when he raises his brow, Zima jerks his thumb toward the trunk. Bucky fiddles with the little detonator until they’re a safe distance away from the property before he sets the explosion off. He can see it in the rearview mirror, flames billowing up in a round burst in the distance behind them. Good fuckin’ riddance. “So,” he kicks his boots up on the dash as they drive away from the exploding lab. “Say I believe you about you not being with Hydra. Who the hell _are_ you with? You didn’t find this lab by accident.”

Zima glares at the road, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He’s got a harsh face, like it’s been chiseled out of stone. “What, are you deciding if I will be next on your kill list?”

Bucky shrugs. Yes, that’s exactly what he’s deciding. They might have become tentative allies for the day but Bucky doesn’t trust this guy as far as he could throw him. “Answer the question.” 

“I am not working with anyone.”

“Sure.”

“Let me make it easy for you.” He stares straight ahead, like he’s not acknowledging Bucky’s presence at all, save for the fact that he’s speaking. “I’ve spent the past twenty years working very hard to stay under the radar. Last I knew, the Siberian Hydra department shut down around the same time as all that other shit they were connected with. I assumed it was over and they were cutting their losses and disposing of us. So I left Russia and never looked back. I have a house in rural Alaska and I hunt for food and go to town for supplies maybe twice a year. And I assumed I would be doing that until the day the earth dies because God knows I haven’t aged a bit since they pumped my veins full of that blue poison. Until one day I see Hydra all over the fucking news. So I dug into those file dumps and looked for the people who had a hand in making me… this. When I found Bosko, I came here to do the same thing you did. Only the day I went to complete the job, she was meeting another Hydra agent about Sokovia. So I decided to stick it out to see what I could find out because I can’t just leave that alone. And then you showed up. That is my story. Satisfied?”

Alright, so Bucky hadn’t been quite expecting that. It could be a lie, an elaborate story. He sure as _hell_ isn’t about to tell his whole fucking history if this guy asks. He frowns. “You came out of hiding just for that? If they hadn’t come looking for you yet, they weren’t going to. Why risk getting their attention? It’s not like there aren’t people working on taking care of the problem.”

“I suppose I realized that hiding in the woods was not doing me or anyone else any good. And having access to those files Natasha Romanoff dumped on the internet made it a lot easier to track down what I needed to know to start.” He turns the car onto a long, gravel driveway and parks in front of the locked gate. “Whatever Sokovia has going on in that base, it didn’t make it to the American data dump. We’re here. You want to get her out? We need her hand on the sensor to open the gate.”

Bucky grunts his agreement and pushes his door open. Zima waits until he’s rounded the back of the vehicle to pop the trunk. He pushes the door open and stares down at the Doctor. Her wrists have been bound together as have her feet, the one he’d ripped the nails off of still missing her shoe. “Alright, let’s go.” He pulls his knife out and cuts the tape around her ankles. He holds onto her elbow with his left hand as she climbs from the vehicle, giving her no chance of escape. It isn’t until they’re directly in front of the scanner that he cuts her hands loose. “Reach for my weapons and you’ll lose your hand. I don’t need it to be attached to you to open the damn gate.”

She knows he means it, too. Hand shaking, she places her right palm on the sensor. It flashes green and the gate starts to crawl open. Bucky glances at the car and back at her, down to her injured foot that she’s trying very hard not to put weight on. It’s not even like he wounded the soles of her feet. “I think we’ll walk the rest of the way up to the house, actually.” He keeps his hand firmly around her arm as they follow the car to the house up the hill, uncaring that she limps with every step. 

They get into the house and the doctor reluctantly directs them down into the basement to her private lab. After they get her to give the retinal scan for the door and for the safe, Bucky shoves her onto a clear worktable, trading in tape restraints for cuffs to secure her limbs to the metal legs. She fights, but a scientist who spends her days bent over a microscope is no match for a super soldier. The moment she tries to roll off the opposite side of the table, he grabs her arm and pulls her back roughly enough for her shoulder to pop out of the joint. She screams, because she’s soft. It’s okay, Bucky had screamed too. Once there’s no chance of her escaping, he walks over to where Zima is flipping through the files he’d taken from the safe. “Well?”

Silently, Zima hands him a stack.

Bucky hops up onto a table and starts to shuffle through the papers. Most of it is nonsensical to him, scientific formulas and chemical compounds and the like. He sets those aside. When he’s about halfway through the stack, he gets a hit. It’s not a research paper, but rather a file detailing an operative. A-

Well. A girl, really.

In the photograph clipped into the file, she stares blankly at the camera. Her hair is dark and unkempt, frizzing out around her head like it might be pretty and curly if it were properly cared for. She has a pallid look to her brown skin that speaks of months without the kiss of the sun, of not enough vitamins, not enough food. He sees the same peakiness every time he looks in the mirror. With her mouth pinched in a miserable frown and dark circles shadowing her dead eyes, it’s not hard to guess at the treatment she’s been getting under Hydra. He knows about that all too well. The rest of the file is bare bones but it’s enough to get him sitting up straight.

**Subject 19-B**

**Name: Wanda Maximoff**

**DOB: 10-Feb-1999**

**-On the fourth of September, 2014, the subject was injected with Serum LK3-IB and exposed to energy from the Scepter. The subject went into a coma and was presumed brain dead for three days. On the fourth day, the subject regained consciousness and demonstrated a number of new abilities, including telekinesis, telepathy, and energy manipulation. These powers proved to be erratic and uncontrolled and the subject was placed in a radiation proof cell, for the safety of the personnel on base and the subject herself. With the help of Doctor Bosko, we will work on a way to stabilize the subject’s abilities for future use.**

Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_. Super soldiers weren’t enough for them, now they’re doing a whole new kind of experimenting on fuckin’ _kids_. This ain’t even like the Red Room, though that was awful too. Telekinesis? Telepathy? The girl- Wanda- is only sixteen goddamn years old. And they’ve got her in a cell somewhere, have been letting Doctor Bosko use her for who knows what kind of experiments. Bucky grits his teeth until his jaw hurts and picks up the next file. 

**Subject 19-A**

**Name: Pietro Maximoff**

**DOB: 10-Feb-1999**

Oh, dear god there are two of them. The boy’s file lists him having a similar reaction to the serum and ‘scepter energy’. Coma for a few days, minus the brain dead part in his sister’s file, and new powers upon waking. His is listed as simply super speed. Whatever the fuck that means. He looks slightly less like he’s been through hell than his sister, but they have the same blankness in their identical dark brown eyes. Like his sister, his file reports him being kept in a cell for his safety and the safety of those around them. Yeah fuckin’ right. Bucky had been tossed in a cell for the exact same damn reasons. And then they’d left him there for five fucking years. It had been, without a doubt, the worst years of his life. And he’d been in his late twenties. These are… they’re just kids. No older than Bucky’s sister was when he’d gone off to war. 

“Alright,” Bucky says, very softly as he closes the folder. “I’ll help you.”

Zima squints at him. “Help me with what?”

“This.” He holds up the folders. “Sokovia. The experiments they’re doing. I’ll help you stop them.”

“What did you find?” Zima reaches for the files and Bucky lets him have them. It only takes him a moment to read over both of them and when he looks up to meet Bucky’s gaze, there’s fury burning in his eyes. “What happened to ‘ _I can’t save everyone_ ’?”

“That was before I found out that they’re doing this shit to _kids_.”

“What difference does it make if it’s a teenager or an adult? People are getting hurt either way.”

“It makes a difference to me.” It shouldn’t. He should care if they’re experimenting on adults. But it makes a difference, when he looks at the twins’ files and knows they’re the same damn age Revekka was when he’d shipped out. It had been bad enough for him as a grown fucking man. They’re just kids. They still have so much of their lives ahead of them, if Hydra doesn’t ruin them first. Bucky stands and stalks over to the table he’s restrained the doctor on. He pulls the tape off of her mouth. “What did you do to Wanda Maximoff?” He asks after her, specifically, because Pietro’s file hadn’t said anything about Doctor Bosko.

“I-” She swallows, licks her bleeding lips where the skin had ripped off along with the tape. “I have only met her twice. First, to administer the initial serum, which was injected into a group of subjects including her and her brother. And a- a second time. To take samples from her to- to study. To develop a solution to stabilize her abilities.” She presses her head back into the steel table, like she can get away from him like that.

He puts his hands on either side of her shoulders and leans over her, staring daggers. “ _What_ did you _do_ to her?”

“We. We pumped a gas into her cell, just to sedate her. I then harvested blood and bone marrow. That is all. She slept through it. I brought the samples back here to study and developed a possible stabilizer. Because of the situation in America, I could not travel to administer it but Baron Strucker sent someone to collect it. I received a message that the stabilizer was effective and they are set to begin training her and her brother immediately.”

“She slept through it.” Bucky laughs, bitter and brittle. Of course she did. Not that it’s a _bad_ thing. God, no. It’s a good thing for the poor kid and he’s glad for that. But _he_ never got to sleep through any of Doctor Bosko’s sample harvesting sessions. “Why not me?” He whispers. “Why didn’t you let me sleep?”

The fear melts out of the doctor’s eyes, replaced by a sneer, by a superiority that she hasn’t lost, even knowing she’s at his mercy and it’s not going to end well for her. “That girl is nothing like you. _You_ are an immortal _thing_. Why should you sleep?” She tilts her head to the side. “Why should I have mercy? It doesn’t matter what is done, because you will _always_ heal. Even your psyche. You think a real person could have withstood what you did and be anything more than a shell? Even if the body lived, the mind would have died. And yet, here you stand. Walking and talking like a real boy. You and I both know that you aren’t one, don’t we, Солдат?”

Bucky flinches. He… he. He’s a person. He _is_. And. Maybe she has a point about his psyche. When he thinks about it sometimes, it gives him a migraine to even comprehend how he’s fucking functioning at all. He really shouldn’t be, after everything. He’d gotten about thirty seconds into a Google search on the effects of long term solitary confinement before he’d gotten sick to his stomach and exited the page. All that time down there in that hole and he’d never once tried to kill himself. He hasn’t even entertained the idea since he’d escaped Hydra. According to Google, that just doesn’t happen with people who were in solitary. He _shouldn’t_ be able to go on living. And yet, he is. And yet, he _doesn’t_ want to die. He never has. So maybe his mind is healing, protecting him, against the odds. But that doesn’t make him not a person. That doesn’t make him undeserving of mercy. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he tells her flatly.

“You’re going to kill me slowly either way.”

“Yeah. I am.” He unsheaths his knife. “And I think it’s time we get started.”

***

As comfortable as she can be in a business class seat, Sharon spends her entire flight from DC to Minsk buried in a book on the Russian language. Or, at least, she tries to be. Busy minds leave no room to stare out at the twinkling stars over the ocean and daydream. These days, she keeps her optimism buried deeply under a real world knowledge that things _don’t_ usually go the way that you want them to. 

She’d spent her years in the SHIELD academy dreaming of bigger things. Of action and adventure and a chance to step up and be a hero. Of the wild tales that her Aunt Peggy had spun for her as bedtime stories. Well, now she’s on that adventure she’d wanted so bad and it turns out fighting Nazis isn’t exciting or glamorous or anything but a soul sucking nightmare that seems never ending. And she’s only been on the edges of it so far.

The battle at the Triskelion was… hell. To look around you at your coworkers, your _friends_ who you spend all day every day working with and to see a gun pointing back at you. The tech who brought her coffee every day, bleeding out on the floor. The guy who always joked about how he wanted Sharon on his team if the zombie apocalypse happened declaring allegiance to Hydra. Sharon tries very hard not to think about the Triskelion. 

Not that it really works. Half her nights have been spent staring at the ceiling and wondering how she’d managed to miss it. How, those things in hindsight that should have been red flags had slipped right under her radar with her none the wiser to them. She feels really fucking stupid sometimes. Most of the time. She should have seen it. She shouldn’t have been blindsided. So many years, fighting and clawing her way up the ranks only to have her carefully built life crumble down around her. It makes her angry. It makes her want to scream and shake something until she stops feeling the great big ball of _fear_ in her chest. It makes her want to _do_ something.

Confined to desk duty as she’d been was stifling. She’d dug into every file that passed across her desk, trying to put together as much information in the puzzle as she could, in the hopes that it would help in the cleanup process _somehow_. And here she is, on her way to pose as Natasha Romanoff’s _girlfriend_. Because of that info she’d cobbled together from bits and pieces. Maybe agreeing to that kind of mission isn’t the best decision she could have made, not when she has a _massive_ crush on the woman. But Sharon can’t sit at a desk anymore. She wasn’t built for that life. She needs to take her failure in her hands and turn it around and _use it_. So if she has to hold hands with and maybe even kiss Natasha Romanoff, then so be it. It’s not like she’s going into this expecting wedding bells at the end. She’s not _that_ much of an optimist. And she’s not gonna let her heart get broken.

Swear.

She takes a taxi to the address Natasha had given her, sporting a caffeine withdrawal and jetlag headache so bad she barely takes in any of the city. She waves off help and wrestles both of her bags into the elevator, punching the button for the fifth floor. When she gets to the room, she hesitates only a second before she lifts her fist and knocks.

Natasha pulls it open, small smile on her face. She looks comfortable, in a silk hotel robe with a neckline that plunges down her chest in a V to the tie at her waist. Faint silver lines decorate her collarbones- age old scars from something, left unconcealed. “Hey, stranger. My eyes are up here.”

Sharon flushes _deeply_ and clears her throat, meeting Natasha’s gaze. It’s not that she meant to stare. It’s just that… she has a healthy appreciation for the womanly form. With which, Natasha is richly endowed. It’s bad enough when she catches _herself_ staring. Even if it isn’t on purpose she still feels like a creep half the time. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” They stare at each other for an awkward moment before Natasha steps aside, pulling the door open wider. “Let me help you with the bags.”

Letting her take the handle of the rolling suitcase, Sharon follows her into the suite. Natasha clearly has her workspace set up on the table; a couple of different monitors open and a bunch of paperwork spread across the space. There’s a collection of coffee mugs and a half eaten slice of toast on a little plate on the couch side table. “Working hard?” She lets her duffle bag slide from her shoulder, setting it on the floor.

“Mm,” Natasha nods as the door clicks shut. She points at the black laptop. “Research and data on Ophelia Sarkissian and associates. Background checks on all the guests for the gala.” And then the silver one. “Analysis for Hill. They just busted a huge Hydra base. More data than they can get through quickly on their own. Every person working on it helps.”

“Any news on Barnes?” Sharon sits down and toes off her sneakers, wiggling her socked toes against the carpet. She presses her hands together like a prayer and holds them between her knees, unwilling to give away how off her groove being here has made her by fidgeting. “I haven’t seen anything.”

Natasha takes her chair at the couch and picks up her mug, hesitating. “We have… something.” She stares at Sharon, gaze so intense it makes goosebumps break out on the back of her neck. For all that she can be pretty and charming, Natasha can flip her switch at a moment's notice. From bright eyed to bone chilling. And Sharon isn’t sure which one is her real face. Maybe neither of them are. “This is between me and you and _nobody else_. Got it?”

“I wouldn’t say a word,” Sharon breathes. She’s never met him, but she feels like she has. He’d been a prominent character in every Howling Commandos adventure tale she’d ever been told. Bucky Barnes is not _her_ family, but he is Steve’s. And Steve Rogers is close enough to being her family, in a roundabout way, that she’ll close ranks around Barnes to keep him safe if she can. 

Abruptly, Natasha’s small ‘ _I know something you don’t_ ’ smile is back full force. “Barnes contacted his sister. According to what she told Steve, he seemed calm and nonviolent and his memory was intact. So… he’s less of a concern on my radar now in light of everything else. As long as he’s not coming after me or anyone I care about, then let the man have his space.” She shakes her head. “Not that Steve wants that but, you know. I’m not even touching that.”

“Were they-” she waves her hand a little, like that conveys the question. Not that it’s any of her business, but it would put a lot of things in perspective. “Um.”

“You know, I don’t _think_ so.” Natasha sips from her mug. “It’s there, for sure. At least on Steve’s side. But I don’t think anything was ever _acted_ on. Either Steve doesn’t even realize it or he’s much better at keeping his cards to his chest than I ever gave him credit for.” She smirks. “Enough about them, though. We have our own relationship to discuss. Were you thinking a spring or autumn wedding, ma chérie?”

Sharon’s brain short circuits.

“Or, I suppose we could also consider summer and winter. I’m flexible,” Natasha continues. “Whatever you want.”

She’s still trying to process the pet name, let alone come up with a witty response to fake wedding planning. The truth is, Sharon doesn’t really date. It just never seems to work out for her. After the third breakup had gone along the lines of _you pay more attention to your job than you do to me_ she’d just stopped trying at all. So to say that she’s out of practice flirting is an understatement. Hell, Fury had told her to keep up a flirtatious neighborly banter with Rogers and that had been awkward at best. For both of them. He isn’t a shining example of smooth, either. But this is very bad. She needs to get her shit together _very fast_ while they’re still just joking around and the pressure isn’t on yet. Sharon swallows and forces a laugh. “I’m not picky. As long as it’s lowkey. Ma chérie?”

Natasha brightens. “Yeah. Because I’m French. Or, my cover is. And it doubles as a nickname for your name. Sharon. Chérie.” She puts her mug aside. “I figured I’d wait until you got here to hammer out the rest of the details but I was thinking. Maybe we met at the reception after one of my ballet performances and had a very sordid affair and we both realized we were falling but didn’t tell the other so we ‘broke up’ to try and put space between us. Only we were both miserable and so we finally admitted our feelings and then started actually dating.”

“You should take up writing romance novels, Romanoff,” Sharon teases, because she doesn’t know what _else_ to do. “Sounds like something I’d pick up off the rack in the grocery store to read while taking a bath.”

“You think so?” She grins. “Once the workload calms down maybe I’ll pick it up as a hobby.”

“You should. You’re good at making up stories. And how long have we been together?”

“Oh, three years at least.” Natasha muses. “I’ve been carrying around a ring for the last year but I chicken out every time. I’ll get the nerve soon, I swear.”

Hell. In spite of the way her stomach flip-flops, Sharon grins, big and bright. “Watch out or I’ll get to it first.” She pulls her legs up, tucking her knees against her chest and leaning her chin on the top of them. They need to get off of this topic before she starts blushing and giggling and twirling her hair around her finger like a teenage girl. So not cool. “Seriously, though. We should compare notes and make a plan. For our backstory and for the mission itself. But first I’d like to down some extra strength Tylenol, have a shower, and eat something that isn’t airplane food.”

“Right, of course.” Natasha stands and holds out her hand until Sharon takes it, hauling her to her feet. “Bathroom is this way. I’ve got meds in the cabinet, too. Headache?”

“Yeah.” Sharon says, gaze fixated on where Natasha is _still holding her hand_ as they leave the living room slash kitchenette area of the suite and turn around the corner to the bedroom. And alright, maybe Sharon was a little slow on the uptake about her own interests. It’s frustrating, because it seems like most people figure it out in their teens. She’s in her thirties and only just figured out a few years ago- after she’d decided she was over dating- that men aren’t exactly her cup of tea. But it’s understandable. She’d been so focused on making a path for herself that she’d never bothered to look too closely. She’d dated men because that was what she was… supposed to do? You grow up, you get a good job and a boyfriend and you settle down, right? Didn’t really work out that way for her. So she’s not only out of practice with flirting and relationships, fake or not, she’s got no experience with women. Thus, Natasha’s gun calloused hand in her own is making the butterflies in her stomach have a goddamn party. “Always a hazard of long plane rides. Especially when the guy in the seat behind you snores like a bear the entire way.”

“The _worst_. I spent one night in the safehouse with Fury, Steve, and Sam. Let me tell you, between the three of them….” she shakes her head. “Anyway. Bathroom is through there. Take your time. I’ll bring your bags in here and when you get done come find me. I’ll order food and I’ll brief you on everything I have so far.”

“Sounds good to me.” Sharon squeezes her hand and pulls away. “Thanks, Natasha.”

“De rien, ma chérie.” Natasha turns to leave but glances over her shoulder. “You can call me Nat, by the way. If you want.”

“Sure.” Sharon waits until the bathroom door has closed behind her before she half collapses, hands braced against the sink. “Pull yourself together,” she whispers sternly to her reflection. There is no cause for her to be this flustered by a fake flirtatious encounter. It’s in the fucking job description. She’s just reacting this way because she’s tired and her head hurts. Once she takes pain meds and washes the airport off, she’ll be good to go.

She better be good to go. 

She rattles around in the cabinets until she finds the Tylenol, downing two tablets while the shower heats up. Before she steps in, she pulls her hair back with a claw clip that was on the counter. She washes methodically with the hotel soap, eyes closed and head tipped back as the hot water sluices over her skin, not even realizing quite how cold or tired she was until just now. 

Her last day before leaving DC had been a chaotic mess of packing and then rushing to the office to sort out the stack of paperwork her boss had dumped on her last minute. She’d very nearly ended up late for her flight. Despite the snoring, she should have at least _tried_ to sleep on the plane. Now she really needs to make it until at least eight before she sleeps tonight. The longer she stands under the hot water, the more likely it seems that she’s not going to make it to bedtime. She half leans against the wall, eyes closed, until the water starts to cool. It’s only then that she steps out and grabs a fresh towel, running it over her body. The shower has given her enough time that her medicine has started to kick in; now her headache is only a dull throb compared to a pounding kick drum. True to her word, Natasha has brought Sharon’s bags into the bedroom. It’s only as she’s slipping on a pair of sweats that it dawns on her. 

_There’s only one bed_.

That’s… fine? Obviously, Natasha had explained that the girlfriend clause in her cover had come by accident after she’d already checked into her hotel. Of course she would only book one bed when it was meant to be a solo mission. It’s fine. They can order up a cot or… or the couch seemed comfortable enough the few minutes Sharon sat on it. It’ll be fine. She finishes dressing and wanders out into the main room of the suite, perking up at the smell of food.

Natasha looks up from the papers she’s squinting at when Sharon comes in, the furrow between her brows fading. “Food is on the coffee table. Help yourself. Let me just finish this and I’ll catch you up on everything.”

The food Natasha has ordered is a variety of hearty Belarussian fare, some kind of meat filled dumpling and a stack of potato pancakes. Sharon grabs one of the plates and a fork and digs in. She’s halfway through by the time Natasha flips her files shut and turns in the chair to face her. “All done?”

“For now,” Natasha shakes her head, lips pressed together. “Not sure this one will ever _be_ done, but. At least I should never get bored, right?” She leans forward and grabs one of the potato pancakes, biting into it. “So. I’ve done a _lot_ of digging this week. A lot. And from everything on the surface, Serpent Solutions is a legit business. They sprang up about three years ago, making ties to big businesses in the cosmetics industry to do product testing. Since then, they’ve expanded their connections out into other industries like pharmaceuticals. Pretty run of the mill. Except for the fact that if you dig into all of their public executives, they don’t exist. They’re covers, and badly put together ones at that.”

“What about Sarkissian?”

“Mm,” she nods. “I was about to get to her. She’s the only real name I’ve had to go off of. Orphan from Hungary, taken in and trained by Hydra. She cut ties with them a few years back, right before Serpent Solutions got on its feet. She’s been with the company since then. If not in charge, then at least pretty high up in the ranks. They’ve definitely been dealing with Hydra and AIM. Mercenary work, genetics, you name it. Seemed weird that she would just show up at this gala, right? Well, when I dug into the people who are putting it on, it looks like it’s a front too. Behind the ‘charity’ auction, they’re doing underground dealing in ancient artefacts and alien tech.”

“So we’re walking into some kind of an exchange meeting.” Sharon pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. A building that’ll probably be full of Hydra. They’ll be minimally armed to get past security and they’ll have no backup except each other.

“Probably, yeah.” Natasha inclines her head. “It’s good because we have the chance to get way more information than if she was just going to a clean event for the sake of going.”

True, but it still makes Sharon uneasy. Not that she and Natasha aren’t perfectly capable of running missions on their own. But it’s still high stakes and if there’s going to be a lot of Hydra there, then they’re running a big chance of their cover being blown. “Well.” She wipes her hands and mouth on a napkin. “How about we start going over a plan?”

***

Steve’s hands haven’t stopped trembling since the cell. It’s minute, so small that you couldn’t really tell it to look at them, but he can feel it. They’re unsteady. _He’s_ unsteady. It hadn’t fully hit him until they were driving away from that base, but when it had, it had felt like the world dropping out from under his feet. He can’t even _comprehend_ the horror of it. His life has prepared him to look at gore and torture and not flinch away. It hadn’t prepared him for this. The minute they’d gotten the clear to move in, he’d torn his way through the personnel on that base and yet it still didn’t do anything to calm the quaking in his chest. Sam had physically dragged him away from the staircase to the lowest level when they’d gotten that far into the base. _Let someone else handle it_. _You don’t need to see that again_.

Like Steve hasn’t been seeing it every second since he was in it. Like he can’t _hear_ Bucky’s voice in his head saying _God, if you’re up there and you’re listening, please get me out_ even though he’d never prayed a day in their lives spent together. Steve isn’t God. But if he’d never crashed that plane, he could have changed things. He could have changed everything.

He halfheartedly swirls his spoon through his bowl of cereal, tuning out the sounds of Fury and Maria debating their next move. He _ought_ to be paying attention, but even though he can hear clear as ever, the words filter into his brain muddled and cloudy and he’d gotten so behind track in the conversation that he’s not even trying anymore. Their next solid lead is Strucker, who they've figured out is a high up agent in Hydra, but most of their results searching for him have been heavily encrypted or redacted entirely, so it’s not a lot to go on. Not yet. 

And quite frankly, Steve is finding it very hard to care.

Yeah, he wants to rid the world of Hydra. He wants to burn every last one of them to the ground. He wants them to feel every bit of the pain that they’ve put on others. And when he manages to pull himself out of this pit he’s let himself fall into, he’ll get his head back in the mission. But right now… Steve really just wants Bucky. He wants to find him and… and _talk_ to him and say how _sorry_ he is. He wants to hold on tight, like he should have done seventy years ago this week and he wants to never let go again.

God. Seventy _years_. It doesn’t feel like it, not to Steve. Not when he had the luxury of sleeping through it. The luxury of not living them. It’s a lose-lose situation. If he had been wandering the earth all these years, the ache of loneliness might have grown so deep in him that he would never be able to lift himself out. He might have grown used to the grief, grown numb to it, but it would be there all the same. Now, with his third year out of the ice anniversary rapidly approaching, he might have been able to skip those years. But that just means everything feels raw and _immediate_ all the time. Some nights he wakes and thinks he’s still at war. Some mornings he stumbles into the kitchen for coffee and expects Bucky to already be there, nose buried in the paper. And it feels just as awful to remember the truth as it had been to live through it in the first place. He absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the tags hanging around his neck as he shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. Even though he doesn’t _feel_ hungry, he needs to eat. The serum demands it. 

“Guys.” Sam comes into the room, balancing his laptop on his forearm. “You need to see this.”

His voice is firm enough that it gets Steve’s attention and shuts Fury and Maria up. He sits up straighter. “What is it, Sam?”

Sam sets the laptop on the table where everyone can see it, paused on some grim looking news forecaster and hits the space bar. The feed picks up in lightly accented english. 

“Breaking from Slovakia. Police and firefighting teams were called in to reports of a massive explosion at a pharmaceutical development laboratory. Eyewitnesses reported that the entire facility was consumed in a series of blasts. First assumptions were that something triggered the original explosion to go off and the facility’s flammable and explosive contents also caught flame in a tragic accident where there were no survivors. However, the first responders clarified that the explosion was _intentional_. The police chief was quoted saying ‘The blasts were set up by someone. Due to security feeds being inaccessible we are unsure at this time whether it was a member of the facility itself that set the blast or whether the facility was breached by an outsider. The person or persons also left stacks of paper evidence on the facility in the guard booth on the property. What we thought was a facility producing medicine for our country was actually Hydra.’” 

The newscaster shuffles his papers and shakes his head. “The investigation has now been turned over to Interpol, who refused to comment on the developing story. This revelation comes hot on the heels of a Hydra base in Belarus being shut down. The events that transpired in Washington DC have shaken the world. I’m sure many of us longed to believe that the threat would be contained to the States. However, the evidence says otherwise. How many operational Hydra facilities will come to light in the coming weeks? And furthermore, who is the mysterious person or persons responsible for the blast in Slovakia? This is a developing story. We will continue to provide updates if and when we get them.”

The room is dead silent for a few moments before Steve sucks in his breath. “It’s him.” His heart is thudding hard against his ribcage, breath catching in his throat.

“You don’t know that, Rogers.” Fury frowns at him, but he’s pressing his steepled fingers to his chin, deep furrow between his brows.

“It tracks with his other movements,” Sam points out and Steve shoots him a small, grateful smile. “He’s left damning data at each site we can tentatively place him at.”

Maria pulls her phone from her pocket. “There’s no proof that Karpov’s house was him, either. And this was… a spectacle. That doesn’t track.” 

Steve grits his teeth because nothing he says is going to erase that skepticism. It’s there for a reason. All he’s really going on is his gut here. “We need to figure out who was in charge of that facility.” Cross reference the info against other data to figure out if Bucky has any connection to them. One body might be a coincidence. Two is a pattern. Or at least, enough of a lead for Steve to see the worth in following through. If this was Bucky, that means he’s in Europe and he was willing to create a big story for the news. It _is_ a spectacle. “Maria, can we work with Interpol to get access to their data from the investigation?”

“Already on it.” She presses her phone to her ear and walks out of the room.

“Why blow the facility?” Sam braces his hands against the table. “Why not… incapacitate its personnel and leave them for Interpol to find? The data wouldn’t have had to be moved either.”

Fury shrugs. “It’s a pharmaceutical lab. Could be something they were making that whoever did this wanted destroyed. It could be to make a statement. Say it _is_ Barnes….” he glances at Steve. “To send a message maybe. From a far enough distance that he could be in the wind before it ever reached its intended recipient.”

“I want to know more about that facility.” Steve says, not flinching from Fury’s words. Even if Bucky is in the wind… it’s _something_. It’s already knocked him out of his apathetic state. “I need to-” he drums his fingers against the tabletop for a second before pushing away his forgotten cereal and standing. He needs to go through the files they have and see if anything surfaces. The laptop with the files from the Babruysk base is on the couch and he turns it on, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “Do we know where in Slovakia it was?”

“Košice.” Sam answers, half distracted as he types something into his laptop. “I’ll look through the DC data if you want to take the most recent batch.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “Thank you, Sam.”

Fury wanders off, phone held to his ear. God knows what he’s doing. The man is still a mystery. He keeps his cards to his chest and doesn’t let anyone else see them, except maybe Hill. Even now that SHIELD is gone and he’s the director of nothing, Steve doesn’t quite trust him. He doubts he ever will. 

He doesn’t have much to go on, so he settles in for what’s probably going to be a long, tiring day of combing through a lot of useless files. Whatever Hydra’s organization process is, it seems to be different with every batch of data they acquire. If there’s any organization at all. It’s meant to be misleading and to make you want to rip your hair out, he’s positive. There are some files that are folder after folder after folder only to lead to… nothing. Some things that seem like they should have been better encrypted are easy to find. It makes no damn sense. But he’s only halfway through the first one- after getting no hits just searching for the facility by city- that his phone buzzes in his pocket. Twice. He digs it out, figuring it’ll probably be Natasha. Jamie and Revekka both also have this number, but they favor calling. He taps the text notification.

**UNLISTED: Ivana Bosko. Scientist who worked with Karpov at Hydra Siberian base in the 90s. Was currently working at the laboratory in Košice and providing Hydra bases worldwide. Deceased. I have sent an email with copies of personal files taken from her home. They contain drug formulas that have been shipped to various Hydra bases. DO NOT SHARE. If you come across said drugs or data about their formulation, DESTROY THEM. Hydra has worked hard to keep them out of anyone else’s hands. I don’t think I need to explain why Hydra AND government organizations shouldn’t have them.**

Steve sits up straight and stares at the screen, mouth dry. This isn’t from Natasha, though her number is also unlisted. It’s similar enough to her texted briefings. Clean cut facts, straight to the point. But it’s missing all of her little smiley and frowny face emoticons. Maria and Fury wouldn’t send him a text if they were going to give him info. They’re in the same damn house. So, it’s got to be… it _has to be_ \- he’s reading over the text again when another message comes through. 

**UNLISTED: Jamie gave me this number. And your email. I hope you don’t mind. I waited until the news broke so don’t bother going to Slovakia, I’m not there anymore. Don’t worry about me, I ain’t dead yet. PS, I’m really sorry for trying to kill you. I’ll make it up to you someday. -B**

See, it’s not necessarily that Steve _means_ to start crying like a baby. It’s just that the tears start coming and will not stop. Heart thumping hard in his chest, he dumps the computer off his lap and onto the couch cushion and takes off down the hall to his small temporary bedroom in the safehouse. His fingers slip on the lock, three times before he finally manages to turn the little bolt. Slumping down on the mattress, with his phone held in shaking hands, he presses the call button. Those messages _just_ came through. There hasn’t been enough time for Bucky to be away from the phone, surely. He’ll… he’ll know Steve is calling. He’ll probably be expecting it.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

“God damn it, Bucky,” Steve whispers, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He sits through the robot voice and it’s only as the beep is sounding that he realizes he has _no_ idea what to say. It seems almost… sacrilegious to try and put so many years of _I thought you were dead_ into a fucking voicemail. “Hi,” he says, and his voice is weak and raspy and tremulous and Bucky will _definitely_ be able to tell that he’s crying but he doesn’t even care. “Bucky, I- I don’t know what you’re thinking or why you don’t want to see me or talk to me.” Wait. _Fuck_. That sounds so selfish. He’s not the one that spent seventy years with Hydra. Now isn’t the time for Steve to make things about himself. “Sorry. God, I’m sorry. That’s not… you’re allowed to do whatever you want. I respect your decisions. I just. I miss you. So much. So even if… even if we only met up for a day. Or for lunch. Or something. I _promise_ , I’ll never try to make you stay if you don’t want to. I’ll let you go. I don’t know if that’s what you’re worrying about and why you told Revekka-” he breaks off, words stuck in his throat. “And. You don’t ever have to apologize to me or… or _make up_ for what happened in DC. It’s not your fault. I _know_ you would have never, ever chosen that.”

Steve swallows hard and shifts the phone to his other ear, digging the fingers of his free hand into the edge of the mattress like it’ll help him get a fucking grip. “So, please don’t blame yourself. I don’t blame you. Not for any of it. And if you ever change your mind… just let me know where. I’ll come to you. But I… I promise. I won’t try to track and find you unless you want me to. I have access to a lot of intel that you might not have. If you need information on anything or anyone. Just let me know. I’ll do what I can to get it to you. I guess you have an email because you said you sent me files. So I can send them to you too. If you want. And if there’s a specific base or something that you can’t hit. I can. I’ll do it for you.” He takes a deep breath. “God, there’s so much I want to say to you. But not like this. I just… I need you to know that whenever you’re ready… I’ll be here. I-” 

What?

I feel like there’s a hole in my chest without you?

It felt like the world stopped turning when you fell and I didn’t take a breath until I saw you on that freeway?

I still don’t know how I’m supposed to do this when you’re not shoulder to shoulder with me?

How do you tell someone- someone who you’ve grown up with and yet never managed to put feelings into words, just relied on unspoken truths between each other- how do you tell them that the world goes grey without them? That everything is wrong and tilted on an out of control axis. That he’d give anything, _anything_ to just have a moment in Bucky’s space, even if no words are spoken at all, a moment to just be with him and _breathe_ right again. He can’t _say_ anything like that. Yeah, he’s not hard headed enough to not be able to admit that he’s fucking desperate. That he’s probably attached to an unhealthy level, even for a friendship as close as theirs had been. Sam isn’t walking around feeling like he’s going to die because he isn’t with his friends. Well. Steve is his friend, but it’s not like they’ve known each other for ages. Whoever Sam’s friends in DC are, he isn’t missing them like Steve misses Bucky.

Granted, it’s different. Steve had thought Bucky had been _dead_ , only to find out that the reality was far worse. But still. He should _probably_ be a little more put together than he is. At the very least, he needs to act like it. Bucky doesn’t need Steve being a clingy little crybaby right now. He’s selfish enough that no matter how awful what Bucky went through was, there’s a part of him deep down that is _glad_ , because it means he’s _here_. In the future. But he isn’t selfish enough that he doesn’t know he needs to pull it together. 

He clears his throat, too aware of the fact that when- if- Bucky listens to his message, he’s gonna be listening to a lot of Steve breathing shakily into the microphone, trying to figure out what to say. “I’ll be here. Goodb-” his voice breaks. He _can’t_ say it, won’t say goodbye. Not when he’s been trying since 1945 and he could never manage it even when he thought Bucky was dead. “Please don’t leave me in the dark, Buck. At least text me. Once a day. So I know you’re safe and alive. _Please._ That’s all I’m asking for. Everything else… you’re the one setting the pace. But let me have this. Please.” He hits the end call button and digs the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until the world behind his eyelids goes staticky and kaleidoscopic. It takes a good couple of minutes of sitting like that before he can breathe steady and not feel like he’s about to dissolve into tears again. Yes, Bucky reaching out has flipped his world on its end. But it was made clear with the unanswered call that the texts and the email are all he’s getting at this point. And… he does still have a job to do. Although now that he _knows_ Slovakia was Bucky, he doesn’t need to hunt for a connection.

So what he needs to do is see what Bucky had sent him. See if there are any further instructions. And then from there… well. Bucky’s message had been clear. And while Steve trusts Sam and he trusts Natasha, it’s only natural that Bucky doesn’t. He doesn’t know them. So whatever is in those files, Steve needs to keep it to himself. He takes a deep breath and stands, going back to the main room.

Sam looks up from his laptop, frowning at Steve. “You ran out of here like your hair was on fire, dude. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Steve sits down and pulls the computer back onto his lap. “Just… Jamie on the phone. Find anything yet?”

“Nah. Not from just searching.”

“Me either.” He sighs and shakes his head. “This is gonna be a long day.”

***

In the interests of being as armed as possible, when they’d gone shopping for appropriate clothing for the gala, Natasha and Sharon had chosen based on two things: one, movability for fighting, and two, ability to conceal weapons. How it ended up was Natasha getting a black silk pantsuit with a floor length matching velvet overcoat that’s trimmed in luscious faux fur. She has one of those giant floppy hats that obscure your vision so badly that it probably cancels out any sun shielding benefits. For her, it works because it conceals her face. Less of a chance to be recognized if all anyone can see when they look at her is the brim of her Rich and Classy Lady hat. And if she needs to fight, all she needs to do is take it off. 

On one wrist, she has a shiny silver bracelet that really isn’t a bracelet at all, but a garrote wire. The rings adorning her fingers are not just pretty trinkets, but fully capable of delivering the same shock as her widow bite discs. She’s got no less than ten knives- non-metallic, of course, don’t want to set off any metal detectors- concealed on her body.

Sharon is equally armed, but she’s wearing a floor length black silk gown with a slit just about up to her hip. The top half crisscrosses, tying around her neck and leaving her back bare. She’s got her blonde hair up in a twist, a few curling strands left out to brush against her shoulders. 

Staring at the two of them in the floor length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, Natasha nods. “We look good, Carter.” A couple of girls putting on their fake faces for the night; playing dress up for an audience that doesn’t even know they’re watching a performance. 

“Damn right.” Sharon glances at her, meeting her gaze in the mirror only for a second before she turns away, skirt swishing against the floor.

See. Natasha isn’t quite sure what to make of her. When Sharon had first arrived yesterday, she’d been blushing and easily flustered and Nat had thought _oh no, she has a crush_. It’s not that it _bothers_ her, if anything it’s flattering, and she’s not unused to it. Especially after her face went public with the Avengers. She has an ‘official’ Avengers email that’s mostly handled by Stark’s PR people but occasionally Natasha likes to log in and read the fan mail when she needs a little flattery. But it could complicate the mission. And it doesn’t bode well for making her into a friend if Sharon goes and falls in love with her. Not when Natasha doesn’t even believe in all that, not for herself. Which is probably kind of a self centered conclusion for Natasha to jump to; crushes don’t equal love and it’s just as likely to fizzle out to nothing than it is to grow. But once Sharon had gotten a solid night’s rest in- on a cot she’d ordered up to the room- she’s been nothing but brisk and put together and professional.

So.

Natasha follows her out into the bedroom, watching her as she grabs her silver clutch off the bed and sorts through it. The high waist of her dress ends right at the bottom of her rib cage and with the halter neck, it leaves her entire upper back exposed. This close, Natasha can see the way she has tiny freckles all over her upper back and shoulders, the same as on the bridge of her nose, though those are covered with makeup at the moment. Even relaxed as she is, it’s clear to see that she doesn’t skip days at the gym. Her back and arms are toned and defined, muscles shifting with every movement. It’s kind of mesmerizing, actually. Now, Natasha is no slacker and she’s not any _less_ toned, but her upper back is the one spot she can’t really see in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” Sharon says softly, glancing over her shoulder.

“Just trying to figure out your workout routine.” Natasha smiles, brushes it off. She _was_ staring, but not with purpose. Sexuality has never been something that’s given Natasha any grief. Her training had been such that whatever the mission required, she had no issues carrying through. And when she’d finally broken free of her programming and started sorting herself out, it had been the easiest and least important conclusion of her experimentation with figuring out _who_ she was supposed to be. She’s picky about it only because sex, however meaningless, is giving another person the chance to catch you off guard and vulnerable. So she’s careful who she takes to bed because she’s made a _lot_ of enemies. But when it comes to men or women… she can appreciate the strengths of both. And she can admire Sharon’s toned back without intent. “Are you about ready to go? The car will probably be here soon.”

“Ready when you are.” Sharon snaps her clutch shut. “And you’re welcome to join me in the gym tomorrow morning. Would be fun to spar, but maybe not in a hotel when we’re undercover.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Granted, once the gala is over, they’re probably going their separate ways fairly quickly. Sharon will go back to the CIA and Natasha will go back to her team, chock full of new information. Not that they’re wasting away in boredom without her. They’ve gotten more action this week than she has, though tonight might turn that around. Depends on if they blow their covers, intentional or not.

With minimal intel, the tentative plan is to get inside with their generous- if horny- ticket holder. From there, stay long enough to be polite and then slip away to ‘powder their noses’. Or, to see what kind of intel they can get. Track down whatever undercover evil activities are happening under everyone’s noses. Hopefully not get killed. Between the two of them, Natasha has faith they can handle themselves. They’ve packed all their bags and stashed them in Natasha’s car, parked in a garage far enough away from the hotel that if their cover is blown, they don’t need to come back here to get anything. 

The front desk rings up to the room when their car arrives, courtesy of Oliver Taggart, who has been texting Natasha’s fake phone nonstop all week. For all his family’s money, the kid sure hasn’t learned how to come up with anything more eloquent to say than _haha so what are you doing right now?_ It’s kind of sad, really. They do one last weapons check before they leave the room, heading downstairs. Sharon has her hand looped through Natasha’s elbow, even though she’s the taller of the two of them. Especially with her heels higher than Natasha’s.

Taggart meets them in the lobby, looking like he thinks all his wildest dreams are coming true the moment he sets eyes on them. She doesn’t blame him. They’re hot and the coordinating outfits are only helping that. But there’s not a chance in hell that this night is ending the way he thinks it is. Regardless, she smiles like it’s going to because they need him on their side until they get into the gala. “Oliver,” she leans in, the brim of her hat bumping the side of his head as she kisses his cheek, and doesn’t roll her eyes when his hand settles on her waist. “This is Sharon. Ma chérie, this is Oliver Taggart, our host for the night.”

Sharon’s fingers grip Natasha’s elbow tighter for a second before she releases her to reach her hand out to him. “A pleasure.” They’d decided that she was low profile enough that she doesn’t really need to go by a fake name for this cover. It’s only one night. Her papers have a false last name on them, but even half of SHIELD hadn’t even known her real name. Apparently when you’re a Legacy, it comes with a certain level of awe and disdain. Sharon had explained once, way back before everything fell apart, while she was still babysitting Steve, that it was easier to just be Agent Thirteen at work. Fury helped her keep it that way. 

“Well, I’m just the luckiest fella in the whole party tonight.” Oliver grins brightly and offers them both his elbows. “Car’s waitin’, ladies. Shall we go?”

Natasha had warned Sharon about the guy’s tendency to talk about himself, but when he starts droning on and on about how he’s the only heir to a multi billion dollar oil business, Sharon gets a little wide eyed. When she shoots Natasha a look that clearly says _is this guy for real_ , Nat has to press her lips together to keep from laughing. There had been nothing in the background check she’d run on him that had indicated he was anything less than what he says he is. And the detailed backstory he’s giving them with no prompting only cements that. If you want to keep a cover airtight, it’s better to not give out more details than necessary. Enough to make it seem genuine but don’t run the risk of getting the story muddled and getting caught in your own web.

The gala is being held in a recently restored opera house as part of their grand opening. Proceeds from the auction benefiting the war museum. Naturally the gathering place for Nazis to trade artifacts and intel undercover. The three of them head inside, followed closely by Oliver’s bodyguard. Natasha smiles gamely at the security guard as she passes through the metal detector without issue. “Beautiful decor,” she waves her hand, indicating the velvet drapery, the painted ceiling, and the chandelier. “It reminds me much of my days in the ballet.”

“You say it like you’ve stopped dancing, Juliette.” Sharon says as she steps through the detector. She slips her hand into Natasha’s, pressing against her side. “Just because you’ve stopped performing for the public.”

Natasha turns to her with a bright, besotted smile. Her eyes meet Sharon’s and this close she can see how the deep, warm brown of her eyes is ringed with near black at the edge of her iris. “Now I just perform for you.” 

“And for me, I hope?”

Sharon's expression tightens at Oliver’s remark as he follows them through security but Natasha just gives her a firm look before she turns to smile at him. She wouldn’t exactly say she’s _uncomfortable_ with his comments. After all, as Fury likes to say, she’s the agent he can send on any mission because she’s the agent that is comfortable with _everything_. It’s not exactly true. There’s a lot that she wouldn’t say she’s comfortable with, Oliver Taggart included. There’s a vague sense of irritation, maybe a hint of repulsion- sleeping with him is out of the question, certainly. But what she feels is inconsequential in the face of the mission.

And she _does_ feel. The Red Room had never managed to train that out of her, they’d just locked it away where she couldn’t reach it for a really long time. She’d clawed every bit of that feeling back to herself and just because she doesn’t wear it on her sleeve doesn’t mean it isn’t there. She’s more comfortable with people thinking it isn’t there. Clint was the first she let down that wall for. And then Fury and Maria, to an extent. Steve had gotten a hint of it in DC. It remains to be seen who will be next on the list. 

“You’re funny,” she tells Oliver as she wraps her hand around his elbow. Her other hand squeezes around Sharon’s. “Tell me, do you know anyone here?”

“Uh. I wouldn’t exactly call them my friends, but a few,” Oliver says, his eyes roving the milling crowd of gala attendees. “Much as I would _love_ to go find our table and get to know one another more, I should probably make the rounds and greet them.”

“That’s alright,” Natasha smiles. “The night is yet young.”

Sharon’s hand tightens on hers; an acknowledgement. By following Oliver through the crowd, they’re presented with the opportunity to not pinpoint potential threats they wouldn’t be able to if they were to head straight to their seats. So they trail him around the lobby, greeting a racehorse breeder, some bankroller’s wife, and a few old money trust fund heirs. She smiles pretty and says all the right things, but her attention is elsewhere. She registers the men in suits who are roaming through the crowd, smiling and laughing and playing a part, because they’re armed. Catalogues the staff members wearing subtle ear pieces. There’s the politician who dropped off the radar after DC, skulking in a shadowy corner like he’s trying not to draw any attention. There are the innocent people, who don’t even know that they’re in a lion's den right now. 

She and Sharon are standing politely nearby while Oliver chats with an acquaintance when Ophelia Sarkissian walks in. Natasha straightens, subtly nudging Sharon. The woman is tall, sleek black hair reaching halfway down her back. She’s in an emerald green pantsuit that nips in at the waist, flaring over her hips. Flanking both her sides, she has two bodyguards. She walks with her shoulders back and her chin up, demanding attention. And she gets it. Half the room’s occupants seem unaware of it, but there’s an atmosphere of tension with Sarkissian’s presence that hadn’t been there before she arrived.

Immediately a suited man breaks away from the conversation he was having, approaching her with his hand out to shake. From across the room and with her hat in the way, Natasha can’t quite make out anything they’re saying.

“Alright, ladies,” Oliver says, “What say we go find our seats? Shouldn’t be too long before it’s starting.”

What timing. Natasha hides her grimace, looking away from Sarkissian and nods. “Lead the way.” Honestly, it’s better if they leave the room now. Don’t get their covers blown before they ever even acquire any information. 

They head into the auditorium, where white clothed tables have been set up all throughout the main floor. The red velvet curtain obscures the stage, behind which they’re probably setting up for the performance that will precede the auction. Down to the last detail, the theater has been restored to opulence. An usher directs them to their table and Natasha and Sharon let Oliver pull their seats out for them. He’s about to take his own when he straightens and says he sees someone else he knows, that he’s going to go greet them and be right back. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Natasha turns to Sharon. Leans into her space and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I counted fifteen undercover guards in the crowd and ten posing as venue staff. Aside from Sarkissian, that senator from Kentucky in the corner is definitely here on Hydra’s behalf,” she says, low enough that no one will overhear. Anyone looking at them will see the way Natasha’s hand falls to Sharon’s shoulder and traces down her arm, lacing their fingers together and lingering. They’ll see intimacy and they won’t think that the whispered words are anything but that.

“I got the same,” Sharon murmurs. “And if my lip reading from across the room serves me, they intend to meet upstairs during the performance. He said there’s been new developments they need to discuss.”

“ _Good_ work, chérie.” That was more than Natasha had gotten. Damn her big floppy hat and damn the Avengers for ruining undercover work for her. It’s not that she’d take it back. That was definitely a job that needed to be done, a job that had taken all six of them. But it burns under her skin that she’s _not_ as good at her work as she should be because her face has been plastered all over every screen in the world. She might be in heavy makeup and her hair might be different and that’s enough to fool most people, but they’re surrounded by the type who _won’t_ be tricked so easily. 

They make a plan to slip away and spend their time waiting by tracking the people who enter the hall. Sarkissian’s bodyguards come in but she doesn’t. Eventually Oliver returns and the rest of the seats at their table fill up with people he knows so his attention is divided away from them. It’s easy enough, five minutes into the symphony performance for Sharon to double over in fake pain and say she needs the bathroom. It’s easy enough for Natasha to offer to accompany her, voice laced with concern. Nobody questions it and they slip out of the hall with only a few glances by the ushers. 

The lobby is deserted save for the door guard, everyone seated in the auditorium already. They climb the velvet carpeted stairs in silence, hand in hand. “Alright,” Natasha mutters, “if I were a Nazi having a secret meeting what room would I pick?” In an ideal mission, she’d have already cased the place, figuring out the most likely spots before the moment of pressure. But it’s not an ideal mission. She’s seen the blueprints, at least. There are some private lounges here on the second floor. “This way.”

They creep through the hallways on silent feet, listening at each closed door. At the very end of the second hall, they find it. Natasha throws her arm across Sharon’s chest as soon as she hears the voices, halting her steps so they don’t go far enough for shadows to be seen beneath the door. One finger pressed to her lips, she slips her hand into the pocket of her pants and pulls out what, on the surface, appears to be just a phone and a set of earbuds. But when she presses her thumb to the fingerprint reader and slips one bud into her ear, offering the other to Sharon, what it really does is pick up and amplify voices. 

“-in the pharmaceutical industry, but this isn’t the agreement we made when you asked me to come here.” The voice is low but undeniably female. Sarkissian, most likely. “I can’t just make something like that happen at the snap of my fingers, Rizzo.” 

“Yeah, well when I asked you to come here Ivana Bosko wasn’t fucking dead and her labratory dead with her. Hydra _needs_ the drugs she produced.” A man, gruff and irritated. Natasha frowns. She knows who Ivana Bosko is, though she’d never met the woman. Her name had been tossed around by the higher ups in the Red Room, an associate of Karpov’s.

“I don’t work for Hydra anymore.”

Rizzo scoffs. “You work for anyone who pays you enough money, Ophelia. Now I know you have the connections. I can get you the formulas but I need you to make sure that we get the shipments. Strucker is breathing down my neck about this. He needed Bosko. We can make do without her contributions on our big project but we need the regulars.”

“Who killed her? Bosko. Do you know?” Ophelia asks. “Come on. I’m not getting you anything unless you tell me.”

It’s quiet for a long moment. “We think it was… him. The Soldier.”

“No,” she breathes, soft and deadly. “He went down in DC. Rumlow _told me_ he went down in DC.”

Sharon’s eyes meet Natasha’s, her brows pulled together in a frown. “ _Rumlow?_ ” She mouths.

It isn’t surprising. Natasha had known they’d pulled him from the Triskelion wreckage. And he always was a slippery bastard. It’s not so hard to believe he managed to evade being tossed in prison. He’ll need to be taken care of though.

“You’re telling me you believe that?” Rizzo snaps. “Look, I’ve seen his mission files. I know his history. Bosko’s body? Mutilated. They found her in her basement, blood everywhere. Fingernails and toenails removed, bones in her hands crushed. Each arm and her forehead had ‘why should I have mercy?’ _carved_ into the skin. You know what Zola had that robot freak do when he wanted to send a message? He had him write it on their bodies with a knife and he had him leave the target to bleed out slowly. The Soldier made it out of DC, Ophelia. And now he’s after _us_ and there really aren’t that many people who could stop him. You know Karpov is dead too? Yeah, I got a contact in the CIA. Someone mutilated him, right after Insight. Cut out his tongue, cut off his fucking _dick,_ and slit his throat. He was the Soldier’s direct handler.”

“Okay, say he did make it out and he’s on a little revenge tour. Karpov and Bosko were both directly on his program. Rumlow should be scared but neither of us even met the freak. Aside from the inconvenience, we shouldn’t have to worry about him targeting us. Like I said, I’m not even Hydra. And Interpol is all over what happened at the lab. They’ll catch him and put a bullet between his eyes.” 

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. Look, I can’t talk about it in detail but Bosko was working with Strucker on stabilizing something _big_. Something that could make the Soldier look like child’s play. And now he definitely knows about it because all the fucking data was taken from Bosko’s house. So, yeah, he’s targeting us. We need the drugs because if we can’t stabilize our asset before he comes after us then we’re gonna need every advantage to hold the line against him.” 

“Aren’t you in a defended fortress out there? Dramatic.”

“It’s the _Soldier_.” Rizzo sounds queasy. “And besides, if he didn’t go down in DC and he’s defected then he’s probably… he’s probably going to show up with goddamn Captain America and the Avengers in tow. You _know_ who he is.”

“Can’t say that I blame him.” Ophelia mutters. “Fine. I’ll get you what you need. But I want twenty million.”

“Are you insane?”

Sarkissian laughs, high and sharp. “Are you trying to tell me you can’t come up with that? Don’t pull that on me. You might get away with it with everyone else, but _not me_ , Rizzo. Twenty mil. For my troubles. And then whatever lab production price my contact names.”

“Fuck you, Ophelia. Fine. I can have it and the formulas for you in a week. Name your meeting point.” 

“Bucharest. The Red Room. Saturday night.”

Natasha doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even suck in her breath, but her blood runs cold in her veins all the same. She can feel Sharon’s eyes on her but she doesn’t meet her gaze. 

“I swear, you just like that place because of the coincidence of its name.” Rizzo snorts.

“No, they also have a fantastic dance floor.” There’s a scrape of wood, a chair being pushed back. “So wear your dancing shoes.” Footsteps start to come toward the door.

Natasha rips the earbuds from their ears and grabs Sharon’s hand, pulling her down the hall as fast as they can go without making noise. She shoves the listening device into her pocket as they go and when she hears the hinges behind them, she grabs the doorknob of the first room she sees and tugs Sharon into the darkness with her. “Fuck,” she breathes. If they’re caught, it’s not like they can’t fight their way out of it, but they really need to let that meeting go ahead and happen. Whatever drug formulas that Rizzo was talking about, they need to get their hands on those formulas and make sure that Sarkissian _doesn’t_

“Did you hear that? Someone just went in there, Rizzo.”

She turns to Sharon, finding her wide eyed gaze in the dark. “We should-”

Sharon kisses her.

She knocks Natasha’s ridiculous hat back far enough for it to tumble to the floor, cold fingers cupping around her jaw. They stumble backwards, until Sharon knocks up against something, a desk maybe. It’s a _good_ cover and Natasha leans into it fully. She slips her hands under Sharon’s arms, skimming lightly over her ribcage to her bare back, corded with muscle. It’s only a moment later that the door opens.

Natasha doesn’t stop. She presses herself harder against Sharon, leaning up on her toes to reach her mouth. They might have guns trained on them right now, but she’s not going to turn around to look. Sharon’s breath hisses out of her, soft against Natasha’s skin when she bites down on her lower lip. One hand moves around, tangling in the back of Natasha’s hair. 

“Chérie,” Natasha whispers, against Sharon’s lips and smiles when she shivers. She hadn’t missed the way Sharon had reacted to the nickname when she’d first used it and it’s been fun to keep saying it, to keep bringing out that pale blush and flustered smile. Her mouth is hot, sticky with lipstick and she tastes like peppermint tea on Natasha’s tongue. There’s a mutter, something like _this early in the evening?_ from behind her before the door closes again with a sharp click. There’s a moment, a pause, where they freeze against each other and Natasha nearly pulls away. But then Sharon’s hand tightens in her hair and she… doesn’t.

She doesn’t know why she doesn’t pull away.

Maybe Sarkissian and Rizzo will come back, maybe they need to keep the cover going in case they double check. Maybe she doesn’t want to go back downstairs just yet. Maybe she just wants to keep kissing Sharon. She kicks off her shoes and without the benefit of the heels, it’s even more striking how much taller Sharon is than her. 

“Come here,” Sharon giggles and pulls away, just long enough to turn them around. She drops her hands to Natasha’s waist and lifts, pushing her to sit on the desk. Normally, Natasha wouldn’t let someone move her around like that, but. “That’s better, right?” Sharon asks, and yeah, it really is.

This time, it’s Natasha who has her hands tangled up in Sharon’s hair. Making it fall out of it’s nice updo. Natasha isn’t nice and she isn’t sweet and when she twists her fingers into the strands and tugs, bobby pins go scattering _everywhere_ , landing somewhere on the carpet with muted thumps. Sharon kisses her chastely, lips catching against Natasha’s before she tilts her head. Her nose runs over Natasha’s cheek and when Natasha turns her head to the side, Sharon’s lips place a soft kiss right behind her ear. Her hands are wrapped around Natasha’s hips, thumbs tucked into the curve where her thighs meet her pelvis. 

The gentle kisses Sharon is pressing along the curve of her neck make Natasha feel squirmy. It’s too intimate, _too_ sweet and this is… this is just for the mission. She pulls at Sharon’s hair again, tugs her mouth back up and _bites_ because she’s never been soft. Sharon makes a strangled noise that vibrates into Natasha’s mouth, down her throat and leaves her hungry for more. She arches up, pulls Sharon in tighter. Natasha doesn’t do this very often. It’s easy to forget how nice women are when they’re in your arms. Sharon isn’t all curves, she’s taut with muscle all over and her elbows and hips are sharp and bony. But her breasts, pressed up against Natasha’s chest, are soft and her hands running up and down the length of Natasha’s thighs are light, gentle. It’s nice.

“Nat,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

It’s enough to bring Natasha back to her senses. She pulls back, chest heaving, hands falling to the wooden edge of the desk she’s sitting on. This is ridiculous. They’re on a _mission_. They didn’t come here to make out in a dark room and though it might have been necessary to keep cover at first, they’re beyond that now. “It’s Juliette,” she says, leaning away from Sharon. As long as they’re here, the _only_ name that should be leaving Sharon’s lips is Juliette. Not Natasha.

 _Certainly_ not Nat. Which, when Natasha had told Sharon she could call her that, she hadn’t exactly been referring to it being used in this circumstance. It’s a name she lets her friends use. It’s not meant to be said all soft and desperate, like a question. Like a _please_. It’s not supposed to make Natasha’s stomach clench and her mouth go dry. “We’re on a mission.”

“Right,” Sharon says, and steps away from Natasha like she’s been burned. “Juliette. I know. I’m sorry. I just… thought they might come back.”

“No, it’s.” Natasha pushes her hands through her own hair, tangled from Sharon’s hands. “It’s fine. You did the right thing, you saved our cover. But I think we should go now.” They’ve got more than enough information. More than she thought they would get. Steve will be over the moon, because if their new intel is right, then they know where Barnes is headed. They’ll take care of Sarkissian and Rizzo next week at the scheduled meeting and hopefully get more information about Strucker out of them. They can slip out of the opera house now, catch a cab to Natasha’s car, and be at the safehouse in Babruysk by midnight.

“Do you know what they were talking about?” Sharon asks, hands smoothing through her own hair. “About their… asset. The one that could take down Barnes?”

“Not a clue.” She knew Rogers and Wilson had heard about Strucker from someone in the base they’d raided but that’s all. Nothing about an asset or drugs or anything like that. “But I have a feeling we’re going to find out. You wanna go to Romania?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey natsharon besties >:))) this one was for you  
> also now that wandavision has finished releasing and we know her mcu backstory im going to say right now that marvels plots suck and i do what i fucking want! this is my world and in this one she gets her powers from the stone not popping into existence as a witch! also she didn't volunteer for nazis as a grown fucking woman! and she isn't white, she's romani the way she's SUPPOSED to be!!!! argue with the wall! 
> 
> let me know what you thought of the chapter please please please i need comments for sustenance

**Author's Note:**

> find me on  
> tumblr:  
> stevebuckyrightsonly -stevebucky side blog  
> pressrestart -main  
> pressrestartwrites -writing side blog  
> twitter: stevesbigboobs (lol)


End file.
